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-THE      MASTER, 


H  1Rox>ei 


BY 


AUTHOR  OF  "THE  KING  OF  SCHNORRERS" 
"CHILDREN  OF  THE  GHETTO"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK   AND   LONDON 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1895,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 
All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
PROEM         ...............  1 


ir 

CHAP. 

I.    SOLITUDE 5 

II.    THE    DEAD   MAN   MAKES   HIS    FIRST    AND   LAST    APPEARANCE     ....  23 

III.  THE    THOUGHTS   OF   YOUTH 33 

IV.  "  MAN    PROPOSES " 45 

V.    PEGGY  THE    WATER-DRINKER 58 

VI.    DISILLUSIONS 69 

VII.    THE    APPRENTICE 83 

VIII.    A    WANDER-YEAR 99 

IX.    ARTIST   AND   PURITAN    .      .      . 113 

X.    EXODUS 123 


Boofe  1T1T 

I.    IN   LONDON 132 

ii.  GRAINGER'S 145 

III.  THE  ELDER  BRANCH   .   .   .   .   ' 161 

IV.  THE  PICTURE-MAKERS 181 

V.  A  SYMPOSIUM 202 

VI.  THE  OUTCAST » 218 

VII.  TOWARDS  THE  DEEPS 229 

vni.  "GOLD  MEDAL  NIGHT" 245 

IX.    DEFEAT - 259 


VI  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

X.    MATT    RECKIVES   SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES 273 

XI.    A    HOSTAGE    TO   FORTUNE .      .      .      .      ,  .    290 


I.    CONQUEROR   OR   CONQUERED?        .............    308 

ii.  "SUCCESS" 325 

in.  "VAIN-LONGING" 342 

IV.  FERMENT .       <       .      . 364 

V.  A    CELEBRITY    AT   HOME .      .       .       .  384 

VI.  A   DEVONSHIRE   IDYL 408 

VII.  THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES 438 

VIII.  ELEANOR   WYNDWOOD   .      ; 460 

IX.  RUTH   HAILEY 487 

X.  THE    MASTER  .  .  499 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


" 'THERE!'  SAID  OLIVE,  PUFFING  OUT  A  THIN  CLOUD"      .  Frontispiece 

"HE    PLACED    HIMSELF   WITH    HIS    BACK   TO    THE    DOOR7'       .  Facing  p.    12 

"'l  AM  AFIRE  WITH  THIRST,'  SHE  CRIED " "  64 

"'LOR7  BLESS  YOU,  SIR,'  SAID  SHE,  'l'M  NOT  WORRYIN' 

ABOUT  THE  RENT'"  "  226 

"'GOOD-NIGHT,'  SHE  SAID,  SOFTLY"  "  290 

"MATT  DINED  WITH  HERBERT  AT  A  LITTLE  TABLE"  .  .  "  338 
"ALL  WAS  VERY  STILL,  SAVE  FOR  THE  ETERNAL  MONOTONE 

OF  THE  SEA"  .  "      424 


SOMETHING  IN  THE  SCENE  THRILLED  HIM  WITH  A  SENSE 

OF   RESTFUL   KINSHIP "    .  "516 


THE    MASTER 


PROEM 

DESPITE  its  long  stretch  of  winter,  in  which  May  might  wed 
December  in  no  incompatible  union,  'twas  a  happy  soil,  this 
Acadia,  a  country  of  good  air  and  great  spaces ;  two-thirds  of 
the  size  of  Scotland,  with  a  population  that  could  be  packed 
away  in  a  corner  of  Glasgow ;  a  land  of  green  forests  and  rosy 
cheeks ;  a  land  of  milk  and  molasses ;  a  land  of  little  hills  and 
great  harbors,  of  rich  valleys  and  lovely  lakes,  of  overflowing 
rivers  and  oversurging  tides  that,  with  all  their  menace,  did  but 
fertilize  the  meadows  with  red  silt  and  alluvial  mud ;  a  land  over 
which  France  and  England  might  well  bicker  when  first  they 
met  oversea;  a  land  which,  if  it  never  reached  the  restless 
energy  of  the  States,  never  retained  the  Old  World  atmosphere 
that  long  lingered  over  New  England  villages ;  save  here  and 
there  in  some  rare  Acadian  settlement  that  dreamed  out  its  life 
in  peace  and  prayer  among  its  willow-trees  and  in  the  shadows 
of  its  orchards. 

At  Minudie,  at  Clare  in  Annapolis  County,  where  the  goodly 
apples  grew,  lay  such  fragments  of  old  France,  simple  com- 
munities shutting  out  the  world  and  time,  marrying  their  own, 
tilling  their  good  dyke  land,  and  picking  up  the  shad  that  the 
retreating  tide  left  on  the  exposed  flats ;  listening  to  the  An- 
gelus,  and  baring  their  heads  as  some  Church  procession  passed 
through  the  drowsy  streets.  They  had  escaped  the  Great  Ex- 
pulsion, nor  had  joined  in  the  exodus  of  "  Evangeline,"  and, 


J2;  ,  THE    MASTER 

sprinkled  about  the  country,  were  compatriots  of  theirs  who 
had  drifted  back  when  the  times  grew  more  sedate ;  but  for  the 
most  part  it  was  the  Saxon  that  profited  by  the  labors  of  the 
pioneer  Gaul,  repairing  the  tumble-down  farms  and  the  dilapi- 
dated dykes,  possessing  himself  of  embanked  marsh  lands,  and 
replanting  the  plum-trees  and  the  quinces  his  predecessor  had 
naturalized.  For  the  revolt  of  the  States  against  Britain  sent 
thousands  of  American  loyalists  flocking  into  this  "  New  Scot- 
land," which  thus  became  a  colony  of  "  New  England."  Scots 
themselves  flowed  in  from  auld  Scotland,  and  the  German  came 
to  sink  himself  in  the  Briton,  and  a  band  of  Irish  adventurers, 
under  the  swashbuckling  Colonel  McNutt,  arrived  with  a  grant 
of  a  million  acres  that  they  were  not  destined  to  occupy.  The 
Acadian  repose  had  fled  forever.  The  sparse  Indian  hastened 
to  make  himself  scarcer,  conscious  there  was  no  place  for  him 
in  the  new  order,  and  disappearing  deliciously  in  hogsheads  of 
rum.  The  virgin  greenwood  rang  with  axes,  startling  the  bear 
and  the  moose.  Crash  !  Down  went  pine  and  beech,  hemlock 
and  maple,  their  stumps  alone  left  to  rot  and  enrich  the  fields. 
Crash  ! — thud  !  The  weasel  grew  warier,  the  astonished  mus- 
quash vanished  in  eddying  circles.  Bridges  began  to  span  the 
rivers  where  the  beaver  built  its  dams  in  happy  unconscious- 
ness of  the  tall  cylinder  that  was  about  to  crown  civilization. 
The  caribou  and  the  silver  fox  pressed  inland  to  save  their 
skins.  The  snare  was  set  in  the  wild-wood,  and  the  crack  of 
the  musket  followed  the  ring  of  the  axe.  The  mackerel  and 
the  herring  sought  destruction  in  shoals,  and  the  seines  brimmed 
over  with  salmon  and  alewives  and  gaspereux.  The  wild  land 
that  had  bloomed  with  golden-rod  and  violets  was  tamed  with 
crops,  and  plump  sheep  and  fat  oxen  pastured  where  the  wild 
strawberry  vine  had  trailed  or  the  bull-frog  had  croaked  under 
the  alders.  A  sturdy,  ingenious  race  the  fathers  of  the  new 
settlement,  loving  work  almost  as  much  as  they  feared  God ; 
turning  their  hand  to  anything,  and  opening  it  wide  to  the 
stranger.  They  raised  their  own  houses,  and  fashioned  their 
own  tools,  and  shod  their  own  horses,  and  later  built  their  own 
vessels,  and  even  sailed  them  to  the  great  markets  laden  with 
the  produce  of  their  own  fields  and  the  timber  from  their  own 


PROEM  3 

saw -mills.  There  were  women  in  this  workaday  paradise — 
shapely,  gentle  creatures,  whose  hands  alone  were  rough  with 
field  and  house -work;  women  who  span  and  sang  when  the 
winter  night-winds  whistled  round  the  settlement.  The  dramas 
of  love  and  grief  began  to  play  themselves  out  where  the  raccoon 
and  the  chickadee  had  fleeted  the  golden  hours  in  careless  liv- 
ing. Children  came  to  make  the  rafters  habitable,  and  Death 
to  sanctify  them  with  memories.  The  air  grew  human  with 
the  smoke  of  hearths,  the  forest  with  legends  and  histories. 
And  as  houses  grew  into  homes  and  villages  into  townships, 
Church  and  State  arose  where  only  Faith  and  Freedom  had  been. 

The  sons  and  heirs  of  the  fathers  did  not  always  cling  to  the 
tradition  of  piety  and  perseverance.  The  "  Bluenose "  grew 
apathetic,  content  with  the  fatness  of  the  day  ;  or,  if  he  exerted 
himself,  it  was  too  often  to  best  a  neighbor.  The  great  mag- 
nets of  New  York  and  Boston  drew  off  or  drew  back  all  that 
was  iron  in  the  race. 

And  amid  these  homely  emotions  of  yeomen,  amid  the  crude 
pieties  or  impieties  of  homespun  souls,  amid  this  sane  hearty 
intercourse  with  realities  or  this  torpor  of  sluggish  spirits,  was 
born  ever  and  anon  a  gleam  of  fantasy,  of  imagination :  bizarre, 
transfiguring,  touching  things  with  the  glamour  of  dream. 
Blind  instincts — blinder  still  in  their  loneliness — yearned  tow- 
ards light ;  beautiful  emotions  stirred  in  dumb  souls,  emotions 
that  mayhap  turned  to  morbid  passion  in  the  silence  and  soli- 
tude of  the  woods,  where  character  may  grow  crabbed  and 
gnarled,  as  well  as  sound  and  straight.  For  whereas  to  most  of 
these  human  creatures,  begirt  by  the  glory  of  sea  and  forest, 
the  miracles  of  sunrise  and  sunset  were  only  the  familiar  indi- 
cations of  a  celestial  timepiece,  and  the  starry  heaven  was  but 
a  leaky  ceiling  in  their  earthly  habitation,  there  was  here  and 
there  an  eye  keen  to  note  the  play  of  light  and  shade  and 
color,  the  glint  of  wave  and  the  sparkle  of  hoar-frost  and  the 
spume  of  tossing  seas ;  the  gracious  fairness  of  cloud  and  bird 
and  blossom,  the  magic  of  sunlit  sails  in  the  offing,  the  witchery 
of  white  winters,  and  all  the  changing  wonder  of  the  woods ;  a 
soul  with  scanty  self-consciousness  at  best,  yet  haply  absorbing 
Nature,  to  give  it  back  one  day  as  Art. 


4  THE    MASTER 

Ah,  but  to  see  the  world  with  other  eyes  than  one's  fellows, 
yet  express  the  vision  of  one's  race,  its  subconscious  sense  of 
beauty,  is  not  all  a  covetable  dower. 

The  islands  of  Acadia  are  riddled  with  pits,  where  men 
have  burrowed  for  Captain  Kidd's  Treasure  and  found  nothing 
but  holes.  The  deeper  they  delved  the  deeper  holes  they 
found.  Whoso  with  blood  and  tears  would  dig  Art  out  of  his 
soul  may  lavish  his  golden  prime  in  pursuit  of  emptiness,  or, 
striking  treasure,  find  only  fairy  gold,  so  that  when  his  eye  is 
purged  of  the  spell  of  morning,  he  sees  his  hand  is  full  of 
withered  leaves. 


JSOOfe  1T  -CHAPTER  I 

SOLITUDE 

"  MATT,  Matt,  what's  thet  thar  noise  ?" 

Matt  opened  his  eyes  vaguely,  shaking  off  his  younger 
brother's  frantic  clutch. 

"  It's  on'y  the  frost,"  he  murmured,  closing  his  eyes  again. 
"  Go  to  sleep,  Billy." 

Since  the  sled  accident  that  had  crippled  him  for  life,  Billy 
was  full  of  nervous  terrors,  and  the  night  had  been  charged 
with  mysterious  noises.  Within  the  lonely  wooden  house 
weather-boards  and  beams  cracked  ;  without,  twigs  snapped  and 
branches  crashed  ;  at  times  Billy  heard  reports  as  loud  as  pistol- 
shots.  One  of  these  shots  meant  the  bursting  of  the  wash- 
basin on  the  bedroom  bench,  Matt  having  forgotten  to  empty 
its  contents,  which  had  expanded  into  ice. 

Matt  curled  himself  up  more  comfortably  and  almost  covered 
his  face  with  the  blanket,  for  the  cold  in  the  stoveless  attic  was 
acute.  In  the  gray  half-light  the  rough  beams  and  the  quilts 
glistened  with  frozen  breaths.  The  little  square  window-panes 
were  thickly  frosted,  and  below  the  crumbling  rime  was  a  thin 
layer  of  ice  left  from  the  day  before,  solid  up  to  the  eashes, 
and  leaving  no  infinitesimal  dot  of  clear  glass,  for  there  was 
nothing  to  thaw  it  except  such  heat  as  might  radiate  through 
the  bricks  of  the  square  chimney  that  came  all  the  way  from 
the  cellar  through  the  centre  of  the  flooring  to  pop  its  head 
through  the  shingled  roof. 

"  Matt !"     Billy  was  nudging  his  brother  in  the  ribs  again. 

"  Hullo  !"  grumbled  the  boy. 

"  Thet  thar  ain't  the  frost.     Hark  !" 

u'Tis,  I  tell  ye.     Don't  you  hear  the  pop,  pop,  pop  ?" 


6  THE    MASTER 

"  Not  thet ;  t'other  down-stairs." 

"  Oh,  thet's  the  wind,  I  reckon." 

"  No  ;  it's  some  'un  screamin' !" 

Matt  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and  listened. 

"  Why,  you  gooney,  it's  on'y  mother  rowin'  Harriet,"  he  said, 
reassuringly,  and  snuggled  up  again  between  the  blankets. 

The  winter,  though  yet  young,  had  already  achieved  a  repu- 
tation. Blustrous  north  winds  had  driven  inland,  felling  the 
trees  like  lumbermen.  In  the  Annapolis  Basin  myriads  of  her- 
rings, surprised  by  Jack  Frost  before  their  migratory  instinct 
awoke,  had  been  found  frozen  in  the  weirs,  and  the  great  salt 
tides  overflowing  the  high  dykes  had  been  congealed  into  a 
chocolate  sea  that,  when  the  liquid  water  beneath  ran  back 
through  the  sluices,  lay  solid  on  the  marshes.  By  the  shores 
of  the  Basin  of  Minas  sea-birds  flapped  ghostlike  over  amber 
ice-cakes,  whose  mud-streaks  under  the  kiss  of  the  sun  blushed 
like  dragon's  blood. 

Snow  had  fallen  heavily,  whitening  the  "  evergreen  "hemlocks, 
and  through  the  shapeless  landscape  half-buried  oxen  had  toiled 
to  clear  the  blurred  roads  bordered  by  snow-drifts,  till  the  three 
familiar  tracks  of  hoofs  and  sleigh-runners  came  in  sight  again. 
The  stage  to  Truro  ploughed  its  way  along,  with  only  dead 
freight  on  its  roof  and  a  furred  animal  or  two,  vaguely  human, 
shivering  inside.  Sometimes  the  mail  had  to  travel  by  horse, 
and  sometimes  it  altogether  disappointed  Billy  and  his  brothers 
and  sisters  of  the  excitement  of  its  passage  ;  for  the  stage  road 
ran  by  the  small  clearing,  in  the  centre  of  which  their  house 
and  barn  had  been  built — a  primitive  gabled  house,  like  a  Noah's 
ark,  ugliness  unadorned,  and  a  cheap  log  barn  of  the  "  lean-to  " 
type,  with  its  cracks  corked  with  moss,  and  a  roof  of  slabs. 

Jack  Frost  might  stop  the  mail,  but  he  could  not  stop  the 
gayeties  of  the  season.  "  Wooden  frolics  "  and  quilting-parties 
and  candy -pullings  and  infares  and  Baptist  revival -meetings 
had  been  as  frequent  as  ever;  and  part  of  Matt's  enjoyment 
of  his  couch  was  a  delicious  sense  of  oversleeping  himself 
legitimately,  for  even  his  mother  could  hardly  expect  him  to 
build  the  fire  at  five  when  he  had  only  returned  from  Deacon 
Bailey's  "  muddin'  frolic "  at  two.  He  saw  himself  coasting 


SOLITUDE  7 

down  the  white  slopes  in  his  hand-sled,  watching  the  wavering 
radiance  of  the  northern  lights  that  paled  the  moon  and  the 
stars,  and  wishing  his  mother  would  not  spoil  the  afterglow 
of  the  night's  pleasure  and  the  poetic  silence  of  the  woods  by 
grumbling  about  his  grown-up  sister  Harriet,  who  had  deserted 
them  for  an  earlier  escort  home.  He  felt  himself  well  re- 
warded for  his  afternoon's  labor  in  loading  marsh  mud  for 
the  top-dressing  of  Deacon  Hailey's  fields;  and  a  sudden  re- 
membrance of  how  his  mother  had  been  rewarded  for  help- 
ing Mrs.  Hailey  to  prepare  the  feast  made  him  nudge  Billy 
in  his  turn. 

"  Cheer  up,  Billy.  We've  brought  back  a  basket  o'  goodies: 
there's  plum-cake,  doughnuts — " 

"  It's  gettin'  worst,"  said  Billy.    "  Hark  !" 

Matt  mumbled  impatiently  and  redirected  his  thoughts  to 
the  "muddin'  frolic."  The  images  of  the  night  swept  before 
him  with  almost  the  vividness  of  actuality;  he  lost  himself  in 
memories  as  though  they  were  realities,  and  every  now  and 
then  a  dash  of  sleep  streaked  these  waking  visions  with  the 
fantasy  of  dream. 

"  My,  how  the  fiddle  shrieks  !"  runs  the  boy's  reminiscence. 
"  Why  don't  ole  Jupe  do  his  tunin'  to  home,  the  pesky 
nigger  ?  We're  all  waitin'  for  the  reel  —  the  *  fours '  are  all 
made  up ;  Ruth  Hailey  and  me  hev  took  the  floor.  Ruth  looks 
jest  great  with  thet  white  frock  an'  the  pink  sash,  thet's  a  fact. 
Hooray!— 'The  Devil  among  the  Tailors!' — La,  lalla,  lalla, 
lalla,  lalla,  flip-flop ! "  He  hears  the  big  winter  top-boots 
thwack  the  threshing  -  floor.  Keep  it  up  !  Whoop  !  Faster ! 
Ever  faster  !  Oh,  the  joy  of  life  ! 

Now  he  is  swinging  Ruth  in  his  arms.  Oh,  the  merry-go- 
round  !  The  long  rows  of  candles  pinned  by  forks  to  the 
barn  walls  are  guttering  in  the  wind  of  the  movement ;  the 
horses  tied  to  their  mangers  neigh  in  excitement ;  from  be- 
tween their  stanchions  the  mild-eyed  cows  gaze  at  the  dancers, 
perking  their  nai've  noses  and  tranquilly  chewing  the  cud.  A 
bat,  thawed  out  of  his  winter  nap  by  the  heat  of  the  temporary 
stove,  flutters  drowsily  about  the  candles ;  and  the  odors  of  the 
stable  and  of  the  packed  hay  mingle  with  the  scents  of  the  ball- 


THE    MASTER 


room.  Matt's  exhaustive  eye,  though  never  long  off  pretty  Ruth's 
face,  takes  in  even  the  grains  of  wheat  that  gild  many  a  tousled 
head  of  swain  or  lass  as  the  shaking  of  the  beams  dislodges 
the  unthreshed  kernels  in  the  mow  under  the  eaves,  and,  keener 
even  than  the  eye  of  his  collie,  Sprat,  notes  the  mice  that  dart 
from  their  holes  to  seize  the  fallen  drops  of  tallow.  But 
perhaps  Sprat  is  only  lazy,  for  he  will  not  vacate  his  uncom- 
fortable snuggery  under  the  stove,  though  he  has  to  shift  his 
carcass  incessantly  to  escape  the  jets  of  tobacco-juice  con- 
stantly squirted  in  his  direction.  It  serves  him  right,  thinks  his 
young  master,  for  persisting  in  coming,  though,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  the  creature,  having  superintended  the  mud-hauling, 
has  more  right  to  be  present  than  Bully  Preep.  "  Wonder  why 
sister  Harriet  lets  him  dance  with  her  so  of'n !"  the  panorama 
of  his  thought  proceeds.  "  What  kin  she  see  in  the  skunk, 
fur  Ian'  sakes?  I  told  her  'bout  the  way  he  bully-ragged  me 
when  he  was  boss  o'  the  school  and  I  was  a  teeny  shaver.  But 
she  don't  seem  to  care  a  snap.  Girls  are  queer  critters,  thet's 
a  fact.  He  used  to  put  a  chip  on  my  shoulder,  an'  egg  the 
fellers  on  to  flick  it  off.  But,  gosh !  didn't  I  hit  him  a  lick 
when  he  pulled  little  Ruth's  hair?  He'd  a  black  eye,  thet's  a 
fact,  though  he  giv'  me  two,  an'  mother  an'  teacher  'ud  a  giv' 
me  one  more  apiece,  but  there  warn't  no  more  left.  I  took 
it  out  in  picters  though,  I  guess.  My  !  didn't  ole  McTavit's 
face  jest  look  reedic'lous  when  he  discovered  Bully  Preep  in 
the  fly-leaf  of  every  readin'-book.  Thet's  jest  how  mother  is 
glarin'  at  Harriet  this  moment.  Pop !  pop !  pop !  What  a 
lot  o'  ginger-beer  an'  spruce-beer  Deacon  Hailey  is  openin' ! 
Pop !  pop !  pop !  He  don't  seem  to  notice  them  thar  black 
bottles  o'  rum.  He's  'tarnal  cute,  is  ole  Hey.  Seems  like  he's 
talkin'  to  mother.  Wonder  how  she  kin  understand  him. 
He  allus  talks  as  if  his  mouth  was  full  o'  words — but  it's  on'y 
tobacco,  I  reckon.  Pop  !  pop  !  pop  !  Thet's  what  I  allus  hear 
him  say,  windin'  up  with  a  *  Hey ' — an'  it  does  rile  me  some 
to  refuse  pumpkin-pie,  not  knowin'  he's  invitin'  me  to  anythin' 
but  hay.  I  Aspect  mother's  heerd  him  talk  considerable, 
just  es  I've  heerd  the  jays  an'  the  woodpeckers ;  though  she 
kin't  tell  one  from  t'other,  I  vow,  through  bein'  raised  at 


SOLITUDE  9 

Halifax.  Thunderation !  thet's  never  her  dancin'  with  ole 
Hey !  My  stars,  what'll  her  elders  say  ?  Well,  I  wow  !  She  is 
backslidin'.  Ah,  she  recollecks !  She  pulls  up,  her  face  is  like 
a  beet.  Ole  Hey  is  argufyin',  but  she  hangs  back  in  her 
traces.  I  reckon  she  kinder  thinks  she's  kicked  over  the  dash- 
board this  time.  Ah,  he's  gone  and  taken  Harriet  for  a  pard- 
ner  instead ;  he'll  like  sister  better,  I  guess.  By  gum !  He's 
kickin'  up  his  heels  like  a  colt  when  it  fust  feels  the  crupper. 
I  do  declare  Marm  Hailey  is  lookin'  pesky  ugly  'bout  it.  She's 
a  mighty  handsome  critter,  anyways.  Pity  she  kin't  wear  her 
hat  with  the  black  feather  indoors — she  does  look  jest  spliffin' 
when  she  drives  her  horses  through  the  snow.  Whoop ! 
Keep  it  up !  Sling  it  out,  ole  Jupe !  More  rosin.  Yankee 
doodle,  keep  it  up,  Yankee  doodle  dandy  !  Go  it,  you  cripples; 
I'll  hold  your  crutches !  Why,  there's  Billy  dancin'  with  the 
crutch  I  made  him !"  he  tells  himself  as  his  vision  merges  in 
dream.  "Pop  !  pop!  pop!  How  his  crutch  thumps  the  floor! 
Poor  Billy !  Fancy  hevin'  to  hop  through  life  on  thet  thar 
crutch,  like  a  robin  on  one  leg !  Or  shall  I  hev  to  make  him 
a  longer  one  when  he's  growed  up?  Mebbe  he  won't  grow 
up — mebbe  he'll  allus  be  the  identical  same  size  ;  and  when  he's 
an  ole  man  he'll  be  the  right  size  again,  an'  the  crutch  '11  on'y 
be  a  sorter  stick.  I  wish  I  hed  a  stick  to  make  this  durned 
cow  keep  quiet  —  I  kin't  milk  her !  So  !  so  !  Daisy  !  Ole 
Jape's  music  ain't  for  four-legged  critters  to  dance  to !  My ! 
what's  thet  nonsense  'bout  a  cow  ?  Why,  I'm  dreamin'. 
Whoa,  there !  Give  her  a  tickler  in  the  ribs,  Billy.  Hullo ! 
look  out !  here's  father  come  back  from  sea !  Quick,  Billy, 
chuck  your  crutch  in  the  hay-mow.  Kin't  you  stand  straighter 
nor  that?  Unkink  your  leg,  or  father  '11  never  take  you  out 
to  be  a  pirate.  Fancy  a  pirate  on  a  crutch !  It  was  my  fault, 
father,  for  fixin'  up  thet  thar  fandango,  but  mother's  lambasted 
me  a'ready,  an'  she  wanted  to  shoot  herself.  But  it  don't 
matter  to  you,  father — you're  allus  away  a'most,  an'  Billy's 
crutch  "kin't  get  into  your  eye  like  it  does  into  mother's.  She 
was  afeared  to  write  to  you  'bout  it.  Thet's  on'y  Billy  in  a 
fit  —  you  see,  Daisy  kicked  him,  and  they  couldn't  fix  his  leg 
back  proper ;  it  don't  fit,  so  he  lies  fits  now  an'  then.  He'll 


10  THE    MASTER 

never  be  a  pirate  now.  Drive  the  crutch  deeper  into  the  ice, 
Charley ;  steady  there  with  the  long  pole.  The  iron  pin  goes 
into  the  crutch,  Billy;  don't  get  off  the  ashes,  you'll  slide 
under  the  sled.  Now,  then,  is  the  rope  right  ?  Jump  on  the 
sled,  you  girls  and  fellers !  Round  with  the  pole !  Whoop ! 
Hooray  !  Ain't  she  scootin'  jest !  Let  her  rip  !  Pop  !  Snap ! 
Geewiglets !  The  rope's  give !  Don't  jump  off,  Billy,  I  tell 
you ;  you'll  kill  yourself !  Stick  in  your  toes  an'  don't  yowl ; 
we'll  slacken  at  the  dykes.  Look  at  Ruth — she  don't  scream. 
Thunderation !  We're  goin'  over  into  the  river !  Hold  tight, 
you  uns  !  Bang  !  Smash  !  We'ro  on  the  ice-cakes  !  Is  thet 
you  thet's  screamin',  Billy  ?  You  ain't  hurt,  I  tell  you — don't 
yowl — you  gooney — don't — " 

But  it  was  not  Billy's  voice  that  he  heard  screaming  when 
the  films  of  sleep  really  cleared  away.  The  little  cripple  was 
nestling  close  up  to  him  with  the  same  panic-stricken  air  as 
when  they  rode  that  flying  sled  together.  This  time  it  was 
impossible  to  mistake  their  mother's  voice  for  the  wind  —  it 
rose  clearly  in  hysterical  vituperation. 

"An'  you  orter  be  'shamed  o'  yourself,  I  do  declare,  goin' 
home  all  alone  in  a  sleigh  with  a  young  man  —  in  the  dead 
o'  night,  too !" 

"  There  were  more  nor  ourn  on  the  road ;  and  since  Abner 
Preep  was  perlite  enough — " 

"  Yes,  an'  you  didn't  think  o'  me  on  the  road  oncet,  I  bet ! 
If  young  Preep  wanted  to  do  the  perlite,  he'd  'a'  took  me  in 
his  father's  sleigh,  not  a  wholesome  young  gal." 

"  But  I  was  tar'd  out  with  dancin'  e'en  a'most,  and  you 
on'y— " 

"Don't  you  talk  about  my  dancin',  you  blabbin'  young 
slummix !  Jest  keep  your  eye  on  your  Preeps  with  their  bow- 
legs  an'  their  pigeon-toes." 

"  His  legs  is  es  straight  es  yourn,  anyhow." 

"  P'raps  you'll  say  thet  I've  got  Injun  blood  next.  Look  at 
his  round  shoulders  and  his  lanky  hair — he's  a  Micmac,  thet's 
what  he  is.  He  on'y  wants  a  few  baskets  and  butter-tubs  to 
make  him  look  nateral.  Ugh !  I  kin  smell  spruce  every  time 
I  think  on  him," 


SOLITUDE  11 

"  It's  you  that  hcv  bed  too  much  spruce-beer,  hey  ?" 

"  You  sassy  minx !  Folks  hev  no  right  to  bring  eyesores 
into  the  world.  I'd  rather  stab  you  than  see  you  livin'  with 
Abner  Preep.  It's  a  squaw  he  wants,  thet's  a  fact,  not  a 
wife !" 

" I'd  rather  stab  myself  than  go  on  livin'  with  you" 

For  a  moment  or  two  Matt  listened  in  silent  torture.  The 
frequency  of  these  episodes  had  made  him  resigned,  but  not 
callous.  Now  Harriet's  sobs  were  added  to  the  horror  of  the 
altercation,  and  Matt  fancied  he  heard  a  sound  of  scuffling. 
He  jumped  out  of  bed  in  an  agony  of  alarm.  He  pulled  on  his 
trousers,  caught  up  his  coat,  and  slipped  it  on  as  he  flew  bare- 
foot down  the  rough  wooden  stairs,  with  his  woollen  braces 
dangling  behind  him. 

In  the  narrow  icy  passage  jEjLthe  foot  of  the  stairs,  in  the 
bleak  light  from  the  row  of  l^wle  crusted  panes  on  either  side 
of  the  door,  he  found  his  mother  and  sister,  their  rubber-cased 
shoes  half-buried  in  snow  that  had  drifted  in  under  the  door. 
Mrs.  Strang  was  fully  dressed  in  her  "frolickin"'  costume,  which 
at  that  period  included  a  crinoline ;  she  wore  an  astrakhan 
sacque,  reaching  to  the  knees,  and  a  small  poke-bonnet,  plen- 
tifully beribboned,  blooming  with  artificial  flowers  within  and 
without,  and  tied  under  the  chin  by  broad,  black,  watered  bands. 
Round  her  neck  was  a  fringed  afghan,  or  home-knit  muffler 
She  was  a  tall,  dark,  voluptuously -built  woman,  with  blazing 
black  eyes  and  handsome  features  of  a  somewhat  Gallic  cast, 
for  she  came  of  old  Huguenot  stock.  She  stood  now  drawing 
on  her  mittens  in  terrible  silence,  her  bosom  heaving,  her  nostrils 
quivering.  Harriet  was  nearer  the  door,  flushed  and  panting 
and  sobbing,  a  well-developed  auburn  blonde  of  sixteen,  her 
hair  dishevelled,  her  bodice  unhooked,  a  strange  contrast  to  the 
other's  primness. 

"  Where  you  goin'  ?"  she  said,  tremulously,  as  she  barred  her 
mother's  way  with  her  body. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  drownd  myself,"  answered  her  mother,  care- 
fully smoothing  out  her  right  mitten. 

"  Nonsense,  mother,"  broke  in  Matt.  "  You  kin't  go  out — 
it's  snowin'." 


12  THE    MASTER 

He  brushed  past  the  pair  and  placed  himself  with  his  back 
to  the  door,  his  heart  beating  painfully.  His  mother's  mad 
threats  were  familiar  enough,  yet  they  never  ceased  to  terrify. 
Some  day  she  might  really  do  something  desperate.  Who 
knew? 

"I'm  goin'  to  drownd  myself,"  repeated  Mrs.  Strang,  care- 
fully winding  the  muffler  round  her  head. 

She  made  a  step  towards  the  door,  sweeping  the  limp  Har- 
riet roughly  behind  her. 

"  You  kin't  get  out,"  Matt  said,  firmly.  "  Why,  you  hevn't 
hed  breakfast  yet." 

"  What  do  I  want  o'  breakf  us  ?  Your  sister  is  breakf  us 
'nough  for  me.  Clear  out  o'  the  way." 

"  Don't  you  let  her  go,  Matt !"  cried  Harriet.  "  I'll  quit  in- 
stead." 

"  You !"  exclaimed  her  motitiir,  turning  fiercely  upon  her, 
while  her  eyes  spat  fire.  "  You  are  young  and  wholesome — the 
world  is  afore  you.  You  were  not  brought  from  a  great  town 
to  be  buried  in  a  wilderness.  Marry  your  Preeps  an'  your  Mic- 
macs,  and  nurse  your  pappooses.  God  has  cursed  me  with  fro- 
ward  children  an'  a  cripple,  an'  a  husband  that  goes  gallivantin' 
onchristianly  about  the  world  with  never  a  thought  for  his  'mor- 
tal soul,  an'  the  Lord  has  doomed  me  to  worship  Him  in  the 
wrong  church.  Mother  yourselves  ;  I  throw  up  the  position." 

"  Is  it  my  fault  if  father  hesn't  wrote  you  lately  ?"  cried  Har- 
riet. "  Is  it  my  fault  if  there's  no  Baptist  church  to  Cobequid 
village?" 

"  Shut  your  mouth,  you  brazen  hussy  !  You've  drove  your 
mother  to  her  death !  Stand  out  o'  my  way,  Matthew  ;  don't 
you  disobey  my  dyin'  reques'." 

"  I  sha'n't,"  said  the  boy,  squaring  his  shoulders  firmly  against 
the  door.  "  Where  kin  you  drownd  yourself  ?  The  pond's  froze 
an'  the  tide's  out." 

He  could  think  of  no  other  argument  for  the  moment,  and 
he  had  an  incongruous  vision  of  her  sliding  down  to  the  river 
on  her  stomach,  as  the  boys  often  did,  down  the  steep,  reddish- 
brown  slopes  of  greasy  mud,  or  sinking  into  a  squash-hole  like 
an  errant  horse. 


SOLITUDE  13 

"  Why,  there's  on'y  mud-flats,"  he  added. 

"  I'll  wait  on  the  mud-flats  fur  the  merciful  tide."  She  fast- 
ened her  bonnet-strings  firmly. 

"  The  river  is  full  of  ice,"  he  urged. 

"  There  will  be  room  fur  me,"  she  answered.  Then,  with  a 
sudden  exclamation  of  dismay,  "  My  God !  you've  got  no  shoes 
and  socks  on  !  You'll  ketch  your  death.  Go  up-stairs  d'reckly.': 

"  No,"  replied  Matt,  becoming  conscious  for  the  first  time  of 
a  cold  wave  creeping  up  his  spinal  marrow.  "  I'll  ketch  my 
death,  then,"  and  he  sneezed  vehemently. 

"  Put  on  your  shoes  an'  socks  d'reckly,  you  wretched  boy. 
You  know  what  a  bother  I  hed  with  you  last  time." 

He  shook  his  head,  conscious  of  a  trump  card. 

"  D'ye  hear  me  !     Put  on  your  shoes  and  socks  1" 

"  Take  off  your  bonnet  an'  sacque,"  retorted  Matt,  clinching 
his  fists. 

"  Put  on  your  shoes  an'  socks  !"  repeated  his  mother. 

"  Take  off  your  bonnet  an'  sacque,  an'  I'll  put  on  my  shoes 
an'  socks." 

They  stood  glaring  defiance  at  each  other,  like  a  pair  of  duel- 
lists, their  breaths  rising  in  the  frosty  air  like  the  smoke  of  pis- 
tols— these  two  grotesque  figures  in  the  gray  light  of  the  bleak 
passage,  the  tall,  fierce  brunette,  in  her  flowery  bonnet  and 
astrakhan  sacque,  and  the  small,  shivering,  sneezing  boy,  in  his 
patched  homespun  coat,  with  his  trailing  braces  and  bare  feet. 
They  heard  Harriet's  teeth  chatter  in  the  silence. 

"  Go  back  to  bed,  you  young  varmint,"  said  Matt,  suddenly 
catching  sight  of  Billy's  white  face  and  gray  night-gown  on  the 
landing  above.  "  You'll  ketch  your  death." 

There  was  a  scurrying  sound  from  above,  a  fleeting  glimpse 
of  other  little  night-gowned  figures.  Matt  and  his  mother  still 
confronted  each  other  warily.  And  then  the  situation  was 
broken  up  by  the  near  approach  of  sleigh-bells.  They  stopped 
slowly,  mingling  their  jangling  with  the  creak  of  runners  slid- 
ing over  frosty  snow,  then  the  scrunch  of  heavy  boots  travelled 
across  the  clearing.  Harriet  flushed  in  modest  alarm  and  fled 
up-stairs.  Mrs.  Strang  hastily  retreated  into  the  kitchen,  and 
for  one  brief  moment  Matt  breathed  freely,  till,  hearing  the 


14  THE    MASTER 

click  of  the  door-latch,  he  scented  gunpowder.  He  dashed 
towards  the  door  and  pressed  the  thumb-latch,  but  it  was  fast- 
ened from  within. 

"  Harriet !"  he  gasped,  "  the  gun  !  the  gun  !" 

He  beat  at  the  door,  his  imagination  seeing  through  it.  His 
loaded  gun  was  resting  on  the  wooden  hooks  fastened  to  the 
beam  in  the  ceiling.  He  heard  his  mother  mount  a  chair ;  he 
tried  to  break  open  the  door,  but  could  not.  The  chances  of 
getting  round  by  the  back  way  flashed  into  his  mind,  only  to  be 
dismissed  as  quickly.  There  was  no  time — in  breathless  agony 
he  waited  the  report  of  the  gun.  Crash !  A  strange,  unex- 
pected sound  smote  his  ears — he  heard  the  thud  of  his  mother's 
body  striking  the  floor.  She  had  stabbed  herself,  then,  instead. 
Half  mad  with  excitement  and  terror,  he  backed  to  the  end  of 
the  passage,  took  a  running  leap,  and  dashed  with  his  mightiest 
momentum  against  the  frail  battened  door.  Off  flew  the  catch, 
open  flew  the  door  with  Matt  in  pursuit,  and  it  was  all  the  boy 
could  do  to  avoid  tumbling  over  his  mother,  who  sat  on  the  floor 
among  the  ruins  of  a  chair,  rubbing  her  shins,  her  bonnet  slightly 
disarranged,  and  the  gun,  still  loaded,  demurely  on  its  perch. 
What  had  happened  was  obvious ;  some  of  the  little  Strang 
mice,  taking  advantage  of  the  cat's  absence  at  the  "  muddin' 
frolic,"  had  had  a  frolic  on  their  own  account,  turning  the  chair 
into  a  sled,  and  binding  up  its  speedily-broken  leg  to  deceive 
the  maternal  eye.  It  might  have  supported  a  sitter ;  under 
Mrs.  Strang's  feet  it  had  collapsed  ere  her  hand  could  grasp 
the  gun. 

"  The  pesky  young  varmints  !"  she  exclaimed,  full  of  this  new 
grievance.  "  They  might  hev  crippled  me  fur  life.  Always 
a-tearin'  an'  a-rampagin'  an'  a-ruinatin'.  I  kin't  keep  two  sticks 
together.  It's  'nough  to  make  a  body  throw  up  the  position." 

The  sound  of  the  butt-end  of  a  whip  battering  the  front-door 
brought  her  to  her  feet  with  a  bound.  She  began  dusting  her- 
self hastily  with  her  hand. 

"  Well,  what  're  you  gawkin'  at  ?"  she  inquired.  "  Kin't  you 
go  an'  unbar  the  door,  'stead  o'  standin'  there  like  a  stuck  pig?" 

Matt  knew  the  symptoms  of  volcanic  extinction ;  without 
further  parley  he  ran  to  the  door  and  took  down  the  beechen 


SOLITUDE  15 

bar.  The  visitor  was  "  ole  Hey,"  who  drove  the  mail.  The 
deacon  came  in,  powdered  as  from  his  own  grist-mill,  and  add- 
ed the  snow  of  his  top-boots  to  the  drift  in  the  hall.  There  were 
leather-faced  mittens  on  his  hands,  ear-laps  on  his  cap,  tied  un- 
der the  chin,  a  black  muffler,  hoary  with  frost  from  his  breath, 
round  his  neck  and  mouth,  and  an  outer  coat  of  buffalo-skin 
swathing  his  body  down  to  his  ankles,  so  that  all  that  was  visi- 
ble of  him  was  a  little  inner  circle  of  red  face  with  frosted  eye- 
brows. 

Mrs.  Strang  stood  ready  in  the  hall  with  a  genial  smile,  and 
Matt,  his  heart  grown  lighter,  returned  to  the  kitchen,  extracted 
the  family  foot-gear  from  under  the  stove,  where  it  had  been 
placed  to  thaw,  and  putting  on  his  own  still-sodden  top-boots, 
he  set  about  shaving  whittlings  and  collecting  kindlings  to  build 
the  fire. 

"  Here  we  are  again,  hey !"  cried  the  deacon,  as  heartily  as 
his  perpetual,  colossal  quid  would  permit. 

"  Do  tell !  is  it  really  you  ?"  replied  Mrs.  Strang,  with  her 
pleasant  smile. 

"  Yes — dooty  is  dooty,  I  allus  thinks,"  he  said,  spitting  into 
the  snow-drift  and  flicking  the  snow  over  the  tobacco-juice  with 
his  whip.  "Whatever  Deacon  Hailey's  hand  finds  to  do  he 
does  fust -rate — thet's  a  fact.  It  don't  seem  so  long  a  while 
since  you  and  me  were  shakin'  our  heels  in  the  Sir  Roger.  Nay, 
don't  look  so  peaked — there's  nuthin'  to  make  such  a  touse 
about.  You  air  a  partic'ler  Baptist,  hey  ?  An*  I  guess  you 
kinder  allowed  Deacon  Hailey  would  be  late  with  the  mail,  hey  ? 
But  he's  es  spry  es  if  he'd  gone  to  bed  with  the  fowls.  You 
won't  find  the  beat  of  him  among  the  young  fellers  nowadays 
— thet's  so.  They're  a  lazy,  slinky  lot ;  and  es  for  doin'  their 
dooty  to  their  country  or  their  neighbor — " 

"  Hev  you  brought  me  a  letter  ?"  interrupted  Mrs.  Strang, 
anxiously. 

"  I  guess — but  you're  goin'  out  airly  ?" 

"  I  allowed  I'd  walk  over  to  the  village  to  see  if  it  hed  come." 

"  Oh,  but  it  ain't  the  one  you  expec'." 

"  No  ?"  she  faltered. 

"  I  guess  not.     Thet's  why  I  brought  it  myself.     I  kinder 


16  THE    MASTER 

scented  it  was  suthin'  special,  and  so  I  reckoned  I'd  save  you 
the  trouble  of  trudgin'  to  the  post-office.  Deacon  Hailey  ain't 
the  man  to  spare  himself  trouble  to  obleegc  a  fellow-critter.  Do 
es  you'd  be  done  by,  hey  ?"  The  deacon  never  lost  an  opportu- 
nity of  pointing  the  moral  of  a  position.  Perhaps  his  sermoniz- 
ing tendency  was  due  to  his  habit  of  expounding  the  Sunday 
texts  at  a  weekly  meeting,  or  perhaps  his  weekly  exposition  was 
due  to  his  sermonizing  tendency. 

"  Thank  you."  Mrs.  Strang  extended  her  hand  for  the  letter. 
He  produced  it  slowly,  apparently  from  up  the  sleeve  of  his  top- 
most coat,  a  wet,  forlorn-looking  epistle,  addressed  in  a  sprawl- 
ing hand.  Mrs.  Strang  turned  it  about,  puzzled. 

"  P'raps  it's  from  Uncle  Matt,"  ejaculated  Matt,  appearing 
suddenly  at  the  kitchen  door. 

"  You've  got  Uncle  Matt  on  the  brain,"  said  Mrs.  Strang. 
"It's  a  Halifax  stamp."  She  could  not  understand  it;  her  own 
family  rarely  wrote  to  her,  and  there  was  no  hand  of  theirs  in 
the  address.  Deacon  Hailey  lingered  on,  apparently  prepared, 
in  his  consideration  for  others,  to  listen  to  the  contents  of  his 
"  fellow-critter's  "  letter. 

"  Ah,  sonny,"  he  said  to  Matt,  "  only  jest  turned  out,  and  not 
slicked  up  yet.  When  I  was  your  age  I  hed  done  my  day's 
chores  afore  the  day  hed  begun.  No  wonder  the  Province  is  so 
'tarnally  behindhand,  hey  ?" 

"  Thet's  so,"  Matt  murmured.  Pop  !  pop  !  pop  !  was  all  that 
he  heard,  so  that  ole  Hey's  moral  exhortations  left  him  neither 
a  better  nor  a  wiser  boy. 

Mrs.  Strang  still  held  the  letter  in  her  hand,  apparently  having 
become  indifferent  to  it.  Ole  Hey  did  not  know  she  was  wait- 
ing for  him  to  go,  so  that  she  might  put  on  her  spectacles  and 
read  it.  She  never  wore  her  spectacles  in  public,  any  more  than 
she  wore  her  nightcap.  Both  seemed  to  her  to  belong  to  the 
privacies  of  the  inner  life,  and  glasses  in  particular  made  an  old 
woman  of  one  before  one's  time.  If  she  had  worn  out  her  eyes 
with  needle-work  and  tears,  that  was  not  her  neighbors'  business. 

The  deacon,  with  no  sign  of  impatience,  elaborately  unbut- 
toned his  outer  buffalo-skin,  then  the  overcoat  beneath  that,  and 
the  coat  under  that,  and  then,  pulling  up  the  edge  of  his  cardi- 


SOLITUDE  17 

gan  that  fitted  tightly  over  his  waistcoats,  he  toilsomely  thrust 
his  horny  paw  into  his  breeches-pocket  and  hauled  out  a  fig  of 
"  black-jack."  Then  he  slowly  produced  from  the  other  pocket 
a  small  tool-chest  in  the  guise  of  a  pocket-knife,  and  proceeded 
to  cut  the  tobacco  with  one  of  the  instruments. 

"  Come  here,  sonny  !"  he  cried. 

"  The  deacon  wants  you,"  said  Mrs.  Strang. 

Matt  moved  forward  into  the  passage,  wondering.  Ole 
Hey  solemnly  held  up  the  wedge  of  black-jack  he  had  cut, 
and  when  Matt's  eye  was  well  fixed  on  it  he  dislodged  the  old 
"  chaw  "  from  his  cheek  with  contortions  of  the  mouth,  and 
blew  it  out  with  portentous  gravity.  Lastly,  he  replaced  it  by 
the  wedge  of  "  black-jack,"  mouthed  and  moulded  the  new  quid 
conscientiously  between  tongue  and  teeth,  and  passed  the  ball 
into  his  right  cheek. 

"  Thet's  the  way  to  succeed  in  life,  sonny.  Never  throw  away 
dirty  afore  you  got  clean,  hey  ?" 

Poor  Matt,  unconscious  of  the  lesson,  waited  inquiringly  and 
deferentially,  but  the  deacon  was  finished,  and  turned  again  to 
his  mother. 

"  I  'spect  it  '11  be  from  some  of  the  folks  to  home,  mebbe." 

"  Mebbe,"  replied  Mrs.  Strang,  longing  for  solitude  and  spec- 
tacles. 

"  When  did  you  last  hear  from  the  boss  ?" 

"  He  was  in  the  South  Seas,  the  capt'n,  sellin'  beads  to  the 
savages.  He'd  a  done  better  to  preach  'em  the  Word,  I  do 
allow." 

"  Ah,  you  kin't  expect  godliness  from  sailors,"  said  the  dea- 
con. "  It's  in  the  sea  es  the  devil  spreads  his  nets,  thet's  a 
fact." 

"  The  Apostles  were  fishermen,"  Mrs.  Strang  reminded  him. 

"  Yes  ;  but  fishers  ain't  sailors,  Mrs.  Strang.  It's  in  f  urrin 
parts  that  the  devil  lurks,  and  the  further  a  man  goes  from  his 
family  the  nearer  he  goes  to  the  devil,  hey  ?" 

Mrs.  Strang  winced.  "  But  he's  gittin'  our  way  now,"  she 
protested,  unguardedly.  "  He's  comin'  South  with  a  freight." 

"  Ah,  joined  the  blockade-runners,  hey  ?" 

Mrs.  Strang  bit  her  lip  and  flushed.     "  I  don't  kear,"  the  dea- 


18  THE    MASTER 

con  said,  reassuringly.  "  I  don't  see  why  Nova  Scotia  should 
go  solid  for  the  North.  What's  the  North  done  for  Nova 
Scotia  'cept  ruin  us  with  their  protection  dooties,  gol  durn  'em. 
They  won't  have  slaves,  hey  ?  Ain't  we  their  slaves  ?  Don't 
they  skin  us  es  clean  es  a  bear  does  a  sheep  ?  Ain't  they  allus 
on  the  lookout  to  snap  up  the  Province?  But  I  never  talk 
politics.  If  the  North  and  South  want  to  cut  each  other's 
throats,  that's  not  our  consarn.  Mind  your  own  business,  I 
allus  thinks,  hey  ?  And  if  your  boss  kin  make  a  good  spec  by 
provisionin'  the  Southerners,  you'll  be  a  plaguy  sight  better  off, 
I  vow.  And  so  will  I — for,  you  know,  I  shall  hev  to  call  in  the 
mortgage  unless  you  fork  out  thet  thar  interest  purty  slick. 
There's  no  underhandedness  about  Deacon  Hailey.  He  gives 
you  fair  warnin'." 

"  D'rectly  the  letter  comes  you  shall  have  it — I've  often  told 
you  so." 

"  Mebbe  thet  '11  be  his  letter,  after  all — put  his  thumb  out,  I 
guess,  and  borrowed  another  feller's,  hey  ?" 

"  No — he'd  be  nowhere  near  Halifax,"  said  Mrs.  Strang,  her 
feverish  curiosity  mounting  momently.  "  Don't  them  thar 
sleigh-bells  play  a  tune  !  I  guess  your  horses  air  gettin'  kinder 
restless." 

"Well  —  there's  nuthin'  I  kin  do  for  you  to  Cobequid  Vil- 
lage ?"  he  said,  lingeringly. 

Mrs.  Strang  shook  her  head.     "  Thank  you,  I  guess  not." 

"  You  wouldn't  kear  to  write  an  answer  now — I'd  be  tolerable 
pleased  to  post  it  for  you  down  thar.  Allus  study  your  fellow- 
critters,  I  allus  thinks." 

"  No,  thank  you." 

Deacon  Hailey  spat  deliberately  on  the  floor. 

"Er — you  got  to  home  safe  this  mornin'  ?" 

"Yes,  thank  you.  We  all  come  together,  me  and  Harriet 
and  Matt.  'Twere  a  lovely  walk  in  the  moonlight,  with  the 
Aurora  Borealis  a-quiverin'  and  a-flushin'  on  the  northern  ho- 
rizon." 

"A-h-h,"  said  the  deacon  slowly,  and  rather  puzzled.  UA 
roarer !  Hey  ?" 

At  this  moment  a  sudden   stampede  of  hoofs  and   a  mad 


SOLITUDE  19 

jangling  of  belis  were  heard  without.  With  a  "  Durn  them 
beasts !"  the  deacon  breathlessly  turned  tail  and  fled  in  pursuit 
of  the  mail-sleigh,  mounting  it  over  the  luggage-rack.  When 
he  had  turned  the  corner,  Matt's  grinning  face  emerged  from 
behind  the  snow-capped  stump  of  a  juniper. 

"  I  reckon  I  fetched  him  thet  time,"  he  said,  throwing  away 
the  remaining  snowball,  as  he  hastened  gleefully  inside  to  par- 
take of  the  contents  of  the  letter. 

He  found  his  mother  sitting  on  the  old  settle  in  the  kitchen, 
her  spectacled  face  gray  as  the  sand  on  the  floor,  her  head 
bowed  on  her  bosom.  One  limp  hand  held  the  crumpled  letter. 
She  reminded  him  of  a  drooping  foxglove.  The  room  had  a 
heart  of  fire  now,  the  stove  in  the  centre  glowed  rosily  with 
rock  -  maple  brands,  but  somehow  it  struck  a  colder  chill  to 
Matt's  blood  than  before. 

"  Father's  drownded,"  his  mother  breathed. 

"  He'll  never  know  'bout  Billy  now,"  he  thought,  with  a 
gleam  of  relief. 

Mrs.  Strang  began  to  wring  her  mittened  hands  silently,  and 
the  letter  fluttered  from  between  her  fingers.  Matt  made  a 
dart  at  it,  and  read  as  follows : 

DEAR  MARM, — Don't  take  on  but  ime  sorrie  to  tell  you  that  the  Cap  is  a 
gone  goose  we  run  the  block  kade  onst  slick  but  the  2  time  we  was  took  by 
them  allfird  Yanks  we  reckkend  to  bluff  'em  in  the  fog  but  about  six  bells  a 
skwad  of  friggets  bore  down  on  us  sudden  like  ole  nick  the  cap  he  sees  he 
was  hemd  in  on  a  lee  shoar  and  he  swears  them  lubberly  northers  shan't 
have  his  ship  not  if  he  goes  to  Davy  Jones  his  loker  he  lufs  her  sharp  up 
into  the  wind  and  sings  out  lower  the  longbote  boys  and  while  the  shot  was 
tearin  and  crashin  through  the  riggin  he  springs  to  the  hall-yards  and  hauls 
down  the  cullers  then  jumps  through  the  lazzaret  into  the  store  room  kicks 
the  head  of  a  carsk  of  ile  in  clinches  a  bit  of  oakem  dips  it  in  the  ile  and 
touches  a  match  to  it  and  drops  it  on  the  deck  into  the  runin  ile  and  then  runs 
for  it  hisself  jumps  into  the  bote  safe  with  the  cullers  and  we  sheer  off  into 
the  fog  mufflin  our  oars  with  our  caps  and  afore  that  tarnation  flame  bust 
out  to  show  where  we  were  we  warnt  there  but  we  heard  the  everlastin  fools 
poundin  away  at  the  poor  old  innocent  Sally  Bell  till  your  poor  boss  dear 
marm  he  larfs  and  ses  he  shipmets  ses  he  look  at  good  old  Sally  she's  stickin 
out  her  yellow  tongue  at  em  and  grinnin  at  the  dam  goonies  beg  pardon 
marm  but  that  was  his  way  he  never  larfed  no  more  for  wed  disremembered 
the  cumpess  and  drifted  outer  the  fog  into  a  skwall  and  the  night  was  comin 


20  THE    MASTER 

on  arid  we  drov  blind  on  a  reef  and  capsized  but  we  all  struck  out  for  shore 
and  allowed  the  cap  was  setting  sale  the  same  way  as  the  rest  on  us  but 
when  we  reached  the  harbor  the  cap  he  warnt  at  the  helm  and  a  shipmet  ses 
ses  he  as  how  he  would  swim  with  that  air  bundle  of  cullers  that  was  still 
under  his  arm  and  they  tangelled  round  his  legs  and  sorter  dragged  him  under 
and  kep  him  down  like  sea-weed  and  now  dear  marm  he  lays  in  the  Gulf  of 
Mexiker  kinder  rapped  in  a  shroud  and  gone  aloft  I  was  the  fust  mate  and  a 
better  officer  I  never  wish  to  sine  with  for  tho  he  did  sware  till  all  was  blue 
his  hart  was  like  an  unborn  babbys  and  wishing  you  a  merry  Christmas  and 
God  keep  you  and  the  young  orfuns  and  giv  you  a  happy  new  year  dear 
marm  you  deserve  it. 

ime  yours  to  command, 

HOSKA  CUDDY  (Mate). 

p  s. — i  would  have  writ  erlier,  but  i  couldn't  get  your  address  till  i  worked 
my  way  to  Halifax  and  saw  the  owners  scuse  me  not  puttin  this  in  a  black 
onwellop  i  calclated  to  brake  it  eesy. 

Matt  hastily  took  in  the  gist  of  the  letter,  then  stood  folding 
it  carefully,  at  a  loss  what  to  say  to  the  image  of  grief  rocking 
on  the  settle.  From  the  barn  behind  came  the  lowing  of  Daisy 
— half  protestation,  half  astonishment  at  the  unpunctuality  of 
her  breakfast.  Matt  found  a  momentary  relief  in  pitying  the 
cow.  Then  his  mother's  voice  burst  out  afresh. 

"  My  poor  Davie,"  she  moaned.  "  Cut  off  afore  you  could 
repent,  too  deep  down  fur  me  to  kiss  your  dead  lips.  I  hevn't 
even  got  a  likeness  o'  you ;  you  never  would  be  took.  I  shall 
never  see  your  face  again  on  airth,  and  I  misdoubt  if  I'll  meet 
you  in  heaven." 

"  Of  course  you  will — he  saved  his  flag,"  said  Matt,  with  shin- 
ing eyes. 

His  mother  shook  her  head,  and  set  the  roses  on  her  bonnet 
nodding  gayly  to  the  leaping  flame.  "  Your  father  was  born  a 
Sandemanian,"  she  sighed. 

"  What  is  thet  ?"  said  Matt. 

"  Don't  ask  me ;  there  air  things  boys  mustn't  know.  And 
you've  seen  in  the  letter  'bout  his  profane  langwidge.  I  never 
would  've  run  off  with  him  ;  all  my  folks  were  agen  it,  and  a  sore 
time  I've  hed  in  the  wilderness  'way  back  from  my  beautiful 
city.  But  it  was  God's  finger.  I  pricked  the  Bible  fur  a  verse, 
an'  it  came  :  *  An'  they  said  unto  her,  Thou  art  mad.  But  she 


SOLITUDE  21 

constantly  affirmed  it  was  even  so.  Then  said  they,  It  is  his 
angel.'  " 

She  nodded  and  muttered,  "  An'  I  was  his  angel,"  and  the 
roses  trembled  in  the  firelight.  "  If  you  were  a  good  boy, 
Matt,"  she  broke  off,  "  you'd  know  where  thet  thar  varse  come 
from." 

"Hedn't  I  better  tell  Harriet?"  he  asked. 

"  Acts,  chapter  eleven,  verse  fifteen,"  muttered  his  mother. 
"  It  was  the  finger  of  God.  What's  thet  you  say  'bout  Harriet? 
Ain't  she  finished  tittivatin'  herself  yet — with  her  father  layin' 
dead,  too  ?"  She  got  up  and  walked  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
"  Harriet !"  she  shrieked. 

Harriet  dashed  down  the  stairs,  neat  and  pretty. 

"  You  onchristian  darter  !"  cried  Mrs.  Strang,  revolted  by  her 
sprightliness.  "  Don't  you  know  father's  drownded  3" 

Harriet  fell  half-fainting  against  the  banister.  Mrs.  Strang 
caught  her  and  pulled  her  towards  the  kitchen. 

"  There,  there,"  she  said,  "  don't  freeze  out  here,  my  poor 
child.  The  Lord's  will  be  done." 

Harriet  mutely  dropped  into  the  chair  her  mother  drew  for 
her  before  the  stove.  Daisy's  bellowing  became  more  insistent. 

"  An'  he  never  lived  to  take  me  back  to  Halifax,  arter  all !" 
moaned  Mrs.  Strang. 

"  Never  mind,  mother,"  said  Harriet,  gently.  "  God  will  send 
you  back  some  day.  You  hev  suffered  enough." 

Mrs.  Strang  burst  into  tears  for  the  first  time.  "  Ah,  you 
don't  know  what  my  life  hes  been !"  she  cried,  in  a  passion  of 
self-pity. 

Harriet  took  her  mother's  mittened  hand  tenderly  in  hers. 
"Yes  we  do,  mother — yes  we  do.  We  know  how  you  hev 
slaved  and  struggled." 

As  she  spoke  a  panorama  of  the  slow  years  was  fleeting 
through  the  minds  of  all  three  —  the  long  blank  weeks  un- 
colored  by  a  letter,  the  fight  with  poverty,  the  outbursts  of 
temper;  all  the  long-drawn  pathos  of  lonely  lives.  Tears 
gathered  in  the  children's  eyes — more  for  themselves  than  for 
their  dead  father,  who  for  the  moment  seemed  but  gone  on  a 
longer  voyage. 


22  THE     MASTER 

"  Harriet,"  said  Mrs.  Strang,  choking  back  her  sobs,  "  bring 
down  ray  poor  little  orphans,  and  wrap  them  up  well.  We'll 
say  a  prayer." 

Harriet  gathered  herself  together  and  went  weeping  up  the 
stairs.  Matt  followed  her  with  a  sudden  thought.  He  ran  up 
to  his  room  and  returned,  carrying  a  square  sheet  of  rough 
paper. 

His  mother  had  sunk  into  Harriet's  chair.  He  lifted  up  her 
head  and  showed  her  the  paper. 

"  Davie !"  she  shrieked,  and  showered  passionate  kisses  on 
the  crudely  -  colored  sketch  of  a  sailor  —  a  figure  that  had  a 
strange  touch  of  vitality,  a  vivid  suggestion  of  brine  and  breeze. 
She  arrested  herself  suddenly.  "You  pesky  varmint!"  she 
cried.  "  So  this  is  what  become  o'  the  fly  -  leaf  of  the  big 
Bible !" 

Matt  hung  his  head.     "  It  was  empty,"  he  murmured. 

"  Yes,  but  there's  another  page  thet  ain't — thet  tells  you  to 
obey  your  parents.  This  is  how  you  waste  your  time  'stead  o' 
wood-choppin'." 

"  Uncle  Matt  earns  his  livin'  at  it,"  he  urged. 

"Uncle  Matt's  a  villain.  Don't  you  go  by  your  Uncle  Matt, 
fur  lan's  sake."  She  rolled  up  the  drawing  fiercely,  and  Matt 
placed  himself  apprehensively  between  it  and  the  stove. 

"  You  said  he  wouldn't  be  took,"  he  remonstrated. 

Mrs.  Strang  sullenly  placed  the  paper  in  her  bosom,  and  the 
action  reminded  her  to  remove  her  bonnet  and  sacque.  Harriet, 
drooping  and  listless,  descended  the  stairs,  carrying  the  two- 
year-old  and  marshalling  the  other  little  ones — a  blinking,  be- 
wildered group  of  cherubs,  with  tousled  hair  and  tumbled 
clothes.  Sprat  came  down  last,  stretching  himself  sleepily.  He 
had  kept  the  same  late  hours  as  Matt,  and,  returning  with  him 
from  the  "  muddin'  frolic,"  had  crept  under  his  bed. 

The  sight  of  the  children  moved  Mrs.  Strang  to  fresh  weep- 
ing. She  almost  tore  the  baby  from  Harriet's  arms. 

"He  never  saw  you !"  she  cried,  hysterically,  closing  the  wee 
yawning  mouth  with  kisses.  Her  eyes  fell  on  Billy  limping 
towards  the  red-hot  stove  where  the  others  were  already  clus- 
tered. 


THE    DEAD    MAN    MAKES    HIS    FIRST  AND    LAST   APPEARANCE      23 

" An'  he  never  saw  you"  she  cried  to  him,  as  she  adjusted 
the  awed  infant  on  the  settle.  "  Or  it  would  hev  broke  his 
heart.  Kneel  down  and  say  a  prayer  for  him,  you  mischeevious 
little  imp." 

Billy,  thus  suddenly  apostrophized,  paled  with  nervous  fright. 
His  big  gray  eyes  grew  moist,  a  lump  rose  in  his  throat.  But 
he  knelt  down  with  the  rest  and  began  bravely : 

"  Our  Father,  which  art  in  heaven — " 

"  Well,  what  are  you  stoppin'  about  ?"  jerked  his  mother, 
for  the  boy  had  paused  suddenly  with  a  strange  light  in  his 
eyes. 

"  I  never  knowed  what  it  meant  afore,"  he  said,  simply. 

His  mother's  eye  caught  the  mystic  glearn  from  his. 

"  A  sign !  a  sign !"  she  cried,  ecstatically,  as  she  sprang  up 
and  clasped  the  little  cripple  passionately  to  her  heaving  bosom. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    DEAD    MAN    MAKES    HIS    FIRST    AND    LAST    APPEARANCE 

THE  death  of  his  father — of  whom  he  had  seen  so  little — 
gave  Matt  a  haunting  sense  of  the  unsubstantiality  of  things. 
What !  that  strong,  wiry  man,  with  the  shrewd,  weather-beaten 
face  and  the  great  tanned  hands  and  tattooed  arms,  was  only  a 
log  swirling  in  the  currents  of  unknown  waters !  In  vain  he 
strove  to  figure  him  as  a  nebulous  spirit — the  conception  would 
not  stay.  Nay,  the  incongruity  seemed  to  him  to  touch  blas- 
phemy. His  father  belonged  to  the  earth  and  the  seas ;  had  no 
kinship  with  clouds.  How  well  he  remembered  the  day,  nearly 
three  years  ago,  when  they  had  parted  forever,  and,  indeed, 
it  had  been  sufficiently  stamped  upon  his  memory  without  this 
final  blow. 

It  is  a  day  of  burning  August — so  torrid  that  they  have  left 
their  coats  on  the  beach.  They  are  out  on  the  sand  flats,  wad- 
ing for  salmon  among  the  giant  saucers  of  salt  water,  the  minia- 
ture lakes  left  by  the  tide,  for  this  is  one  of  the  rare  spots  in 


24  THE    MASTER 

the  Province  where  the  fish  may  be  taken  thus.  What  fun  it  is 
spearing  them  in  a  joyous  rivalry  that  makes  the  fishers  well- 
nigh  jab  each  other's  toes  with  their  pitchforks,  and  completely 
tear  each  other's  shirt-sleeves  away  in  the  friendly  tussle  for  a 
darting  monster,  so  that  the  heat  blisters  their  arms  with  great 
white  blobs  that  stand  out  against  the  brown  of  the  boy's  skin 
and  the  ornamental  coloring  of  the  man's.  Now  and  then  in 
their  early  course,  when  tiny  threads  of  water  spurt  from  holes 
in  the  sand,  they  pause  to  dig  up  the  delicate  clam,  with  savory 
anticipations  of  chowder.  Farther  and  farther  they  wander  till 
their  backs  are  bowed  with  the  spoil,  the  shell-fish  in  a  little  bas- 
ket, the  scaly  fish  strung  together  by  a  small  rope  passing 
through  their  gills.  The  boy  carries  the  shad  and  the  man  the 
heavier  salmon.  At  last,  as  they  are  turning  homeward,  late 
in  the  afternoon,  Matt  stands  still  suddenly,  rapt  by  the  poetry 
of  the  scene,  the  shimmering  pools,  the  stretch  of  brown  sand, 
strewn  with  sea -weeds,  the  background  of  red  head -lands, 
crowned  with  scattered  yellow  farms  embosomed  in  sombre 
green  spruces,  and,  brooding  over  all,  the  windless  circle  of  the 
horizon,  its  cold  blue  veiled  and  warmed  and  softened  by  a  pal- 
pitating, luminous,  diaphanous  haze  of  pale  amethyst  tinged 
with  rose.  He  knows  no  word  for  what  he  sees ;  he  only  feels 
the  beauty. 

"  Come  along,  sonny,"  says  his  father,  looking  back. 

But  the  boy  lingers  still  till  the  man  rejoins  him,  puzzled. 

"  What's  in  the  wind  ?"  he  asks.  "  Is  Farmer  Wade's  barn 
on  fire  ?" 

"  Everything  on  faar,"  says  the  boy,  waving  his  pitchfork 
comprehensively.  His  dialect  differs  a  whit  from  his  more-trav- 
elled father's.  In  his  little  God-forsaken  corner  of  Acadia  the 
variously-proportioned  mixture  of  English  and  American  which, 
with  local  variations  of  Lowland  and  Highland  Scotch,  North  of 
Ireland  brogue  and  French  patois,  loosely  constitutes  a  Nova- 
Scotian  idiom,  is  further  tinged  with  the  specific  peculiarities 
that  spring  from  illiteracy  and  rusticity. 

David  Strang  smiles.  "  Why,  you  are  like  brother  Matt,"  he 
says,  in  amused  astonishment.  All  day  his  son's  prattle  has 
amused  the  stranger,  but  this  is  a  revelation. 


THE    DEAD    MAN    MAKES    HIS    FIRST    AND    LAST   APPEARANCE      25 

"Like  your  wicked  brother  Matt?"  queries  the  boy  in  amaze. 
David's  smile  gleams  droller. 

"Avast  there,  you  mustn't  hearken  to  the  mother.  She 
knows  naught  o'  Matt  'cept  what  I  told  her.  She  is  Halifax 
bred,  and  we  lived  'way  up  country.  I  ran  away  to  sea,  and  left 
him  anchored  on  dad's  farm.  When  I  made  port  again  dad 
was  gone  to  glory,  and  Matt  to  England  with  a  petticoat  in  tow." 

"  But  mother  said  he  sold  the  farm,  an'  your  share,  too." 

"And  if  he  didn't  it's  a  pity.  He  had  improved  the  land, 
hadn't  he  ?  and  I  might  have  been  sarved  up  at  fish  dinners  for 
all  he  knew.  I  don't  hold  with  this  Frenchy  law  that  says  all 
the  bairns  must  share  and  share  alike.  The  good  old  Scotch 
fashion  is  good  'nough  for  me — Matt's  the  heir,  and  God  bless 
him." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  marry  a  Scotchwoman?"  asked  Matt, 
with  childish  irrelevance. 

"  'Twas  your  mother's  fault,"  answers  David,  with  a  half- 
whimsical,  half-pathetic  expression. 

"  And  why  didn't  you  take  her  to  sea  with  you  ?" 

"  Nay,  nay ;  the  mother  has  no  stomach  for  it,  nor  I  either. 
And  then  there  was  Harriet  —  a  little  body  in  long  clothes. 
And  the  land  was  pretty  nigh  cleared,"  he  adds,  with  a  suspi- 
cion of  apology  in  his  accent,  "  and  we  couldn't  grow  'nough  to 
pay  the  mortgage  if  I  hadn't  shipped  again." 

"  And  why  am  I  like  uncle  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  used  to  be  allus  lookin'  at  the  sky — not  to  find  out 
whether  to  git  the  hay  in,  mind  you,  but  to  make  little  picturs 
on  the  sly  in  the  hay-mow  on  Sundays,  and  at  last  he  sold  the 
farm  and  went  to  London  to  make  'em." 

Matt's  heart  begins  to  throb — a  strange  new  sense  of  kinship 
stirs  within  him. 

"  Hev  you  got  any  of  them  thar  picturs?"  he  inquires,  eagerly. 

"  Not  one,"  says  David,  shaking  his  head  contemptuously. 
"  His  clouds  were  all  right,  because  clouds  may  be  anything ; 
but  when  he  came  to  cows,  their  own  dams  wouldn't  know  'em; 
and  as  for  his  ships — why,  he  used  to  hoist  every  inch  o'  can- 
vas in  a  hur'cane.  I  wouldn't  trust  him  to  tattoo  a  galley-boy. 
But  he  had  a  power  of  industry,  dear  old  Matt ;  and  I  guess  he's 


26  THE    MASTER 

larnt  better  now,  for  when  I  writ  to  him  tellin'  him  I  was  alive 
and  goin'  to  get  spliced,  lie  writ  back  he  was  settled  in  London 
in  the  pictur  line,  and  makin'  money  at  it,  and  good-luck  to  him." 

Matt's  heart  swells.  That  one  can  actually  make  money  by 
making  pictures  is  a  new  idea.  He  has  never  imagined  that 
money  can  be  made  so  easily.  Why,  he  might  help  to  pay  off 
the  mortgage !  He  does  not  see  the  need  of  going  to  London 
to  make  them — he  can  make  them  quite  well  here  in  his  odd 
moments,  and  one  day  he  will  send  them  all  to  this  wonderful 
kinsman  of  his  and  ask  him  to  sell  them.  Five  hundred  at 
sixpence  each — why,  it  sounds  like  one  of  those  faery  calcula- 
tions with  which  McTavit  sometimes  dazzles  the  school-room. 
He  wonders  vaguely  whether  pictures  are  equally  vendible  at 
that  other  mighty  city  whence  his  mother  came,  and,  if  so, 
whether  he  may  not  perhaps  help  her  to  accomplish  the  dream 
of  her  married  life — the  dream  of  going  back  there. 

"  An'  uncle's  got  the  same  name  as  me  !"  he  cries,  in  ecstasy. 

"  I  should  put  it  t'other  way,  sonny,"  says  his  father,  dryly  ; 
"  though  when  I  give  it  you  in  his  honor  I  didn't  calc'late  it  'ud 
make  you  take  arter  him.  But  don't  you  git  it  into  your  figure- 
head that  you're  goin'  to  London — you've  jest  got  to  stay  right 
here  and  look  arter  the  farm  for  mother.  See  ?  The  picturs 
that  God's  made  are  good  'nough  for  me — that's  so." 

"  Oh  yes,  dad,  I  shall  allus  stay  on  here,"  answers  Matt,  read- 
ily. "  It's  Billy  who  allus  wants  to  be  a  pirate.  Silly  Billy  ! 
He  says — " 

His  father  silences  him  with  a  sudden  "  Damn !" 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  asks,  startled. 

"  I  guess  you're  the  silly  Billy,  standin'  jabberin'  when  the 
tide's  a-rushin'  in.  We'll  have  to  run  for  it." 

Matt  gives  a  hasty  glance  to  the  left,  then  takes  to  his  heels 
straight  across  the  sands  in  pace  with  his  father.  The  famous 
"  bore  "  of  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  in  a  northerly  inlet  of  which  they 
have  been  fishing,  is  racing  towards  them  from  the  left,  and  to 
get  to  shore  they  must  shoot  straight  across  the  galloping  cur- 
rent. They  are  at  the  head  of  the  bay,  where  the  tide  reaches 
a  maximum  speed  of  ten  miles  an  hour,  and  the  sailor,  so  rarely 
at  home,  has  forgotten  its  idiosyncrasy. 


THE    DEAD    MAN    MAKES    HIS    FIRST   AND    LAST   APPEARANCE      27 

"  You  might  ha'  kep'  your  weather-eye  open,"  he  growls.  "  I 
wonder  you've  never  been  drownded  afore." 

"  We  shall  never  do  it,  father,"  pants  Matt,  taking  no  notice 
of  the  reproach,  for  the  waves  are  already  lapping  the  rim  of 
the  little  sand  island  (cut  out  by  fresh-water  rivulets)  on  which 
they  find  themselves,  and  the  pools  in  which  they  had  waded 
are  filling  up  rapidly. 

"  Throw  'em  away,"  jerks  the  father ;  and  Matt,  with  a  sigh  of 
regret,  unstrings  his  piscine  treasures,  and,  economically  putting 
the  string  into  his  pocket,  speeds  on  with  renewed  strength. 
But  the  sun  flares  mercilessly  through  the  fulgent  haze ;  and 
when  they  reach  the  end  of  their  island  they  step  into  three 
feet  of  water,  with  the  safe  shore  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  David 
Strang,  a  human  revolver  in  oaths,  goes  off  in  a  favorite  sequence 
of  shots,  but  hangs  fire  in  the  middle,  as  if  damped. 

"  Strikes  me  the  mother  '11  quote  Scripture,"  he  says,  grimly, 
instead. 

"  I  suppose  you  can't  swim,  sonny  ?"  he  adds. 

"  Not  so  fur  nor  thet,"  says  Matt,  meekly. 

David  grunts  in  triumphant  anger,  and,  shifting  his  pitchfork 
to  his  left  hand,  he  grasps  Matt  with  his  right,  and  lifts  him 
back  on  to  the  burning  sand,  already  soddened  by  a  thin  frothy 
wash. 

"  Now  then,  han'  us  your  fork,"  he  says,  crossly.  He  knocks 
out  the  iron  prongs  of  both  the  pitchforks,  ties  the  wooden  han- 
dles securely  together  by  the  string  from  Matt's  discarded  fish, 
and  fixes  the  apparatus  across  the  boy's  breast  and  under  his 
arms.  To  finish  the  job  easily  he  has  to  climb  back  on  the 
sand  island ;  for,  though  he  stands  in  a  little  eddy,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  keep  his  feet  against  the  fierce  swirl  of  the  waters ;  and 
even  on  the  island,  where  there  are  as  yet  only  a  few  inches  of 
sea,  the  less  sturdy  Matt  is  almost  swept  away  to  the  right  by 
the  mad  cavalry  charge  of  the  tide  on  his  left  flank. 

"  Now  then,"  cries  David,  "  it's  about  time  we  were  home  to 
supper.  I'll  swim  ye  for  your  flapjacks." 

"  But,  father,"  says  Matt,  "  you're  not  going  to  carry  the  fish 
on  your  back  ?" 

"They  won't  carry  me  on  theirs,"  David  laughs,  regaining 


28  THE    MASTER 

his  good-humor  as  the  critical  moment  arrives.  "  What  wou 
the  mother  think  if  we  came  home  without  a  prize  in  tov 
Avast  there !  I'll  larn  you  how  I'll  get  out  of  carryin'  'em  c 
my  back." 

And  with  a  chuckle  he  launches  himself  into  the  eddy,  ar 
shoots  forward  with  a  vigorous  side-stroke.  "  This  side  up  wii 
care,"  he  cries  cheerily.  "  Jump,  sonny,  straight  for'ards 
And  in  a  moment  the  man  and  the  boy  are  swimming  hard  f< 
the  strip  of  shore  directly  opposite  the  sand  island,  the  sp 
where  they  had  left  their  coats  hours  before ;  but  neither  h; 
the  slightest  expectation  of  reaching  it,  for  the  tide  is  sweepii 
them  with  fearful  velocity  to  the  right  of  it,  so  that  their  cour 
is  diagonal ;  and  if  they  make  land  at  all,  it  will  be  very  far  fro 
their  original  starting-point.  David  keeps  the  boy  to  pert,  ar 
adjusts  his  stroke  to  his.  After  a  while,  feeling  himself  w< 
buoyed  up  by  the  handles,  Matt  breathes  more  easily,  ar 
gradually  becomes  quite  happy,  for  the  water  is  calm  on  tl 
surface,  and  of  the  warmth  and  color  of  tepid  cafe  au  lait,  qui 
a  refreshing  coolness  after  the  tropical  air,  and  he  watches  wi 
pleasure  the  rosy  haze  deepening  into  purple  without  losing  i 
transparency.  They  pass  sea-gulls  fighting  over  the  dead  fii 
which  Matt  left  behind,  and  which  have  been  carried  ahead 
him  in  their  unresisting  course. 

"  We're  drifting  powerful  from  them  thar  coats,"  grumbl 
David.  "  'Twill  be  a  tiresome  walk  back.  If  it  warn't  f 
them  we  could  cut  across  country  when  we  make  port." 

Matt  strains  his  vision  to  the  left,  but  sees  only  the  purr, 
outline  of  Five  Islands,  and  in  the  far  background  the  fai 
peaks  of  the  Cobequid  Hills. 

"  Waal,  I'm  darned  !"  exclaims  his  father,  suddenly.  " 
them  thar  coats  ain't  comin'  to  meet  us,  it's  a  pity." 

And  presently,  sure  enough,  Matt  catches  sight  of  the  cos 
hastening  along  near  the  shore. 

"  We  must  cut  'em  off  afore  they  pass  by,"  cries  his  fath< 
hilariously.  "  Spurt,  sonny,  spurt.  'Tis  a  race  'twixt  them  and  us 

Sea-birds  begin  to  circle  low  over  their  heads,  scenting  Davic 
fish ;  but  he  pushes  steadily  on,  animating  his  son  with  playi 
racing  cries. 


THE    DEAD    MAN    MAKES    HIS    FIRST    AND    LAST   APPEARANCE      29 

"  We  oughter  back  the  coats,"  he  observes.  "  They've  backed 
us  many  a  time.  Just  a  leetle  quicker,"  he  says,  at  last, "  or 
they'll  git  past  yonder  p'int,  and  then  they're  off  to  Truro." 

Matt  kicks  out  more  lustily,  then  his  heart  almost  stops  as 
he  suddenly  sees  Death  beneath  the  lovely  purple  haze.  It  is 
the  human  swimmers  who  are  in  danger  of  being  carried  off  to 
Truro  if  they  do  not  make  the  shore  earlier  than  "  yonder  p'int," 
for  Matt  remembers  all  at  once  that  it  is  the  last  point  for  miles, 
the  shore  curving  deeply  inward.  Even  if  they  reach  the 
point  in  time,  they  will  be  thrown  back  by  the  centrifugal 
swirl;  they  must  touch  the  shore  earlier  to  get  in  safely.  He 
perceives  his  father  has  been  aware  of  the  danger  from  the  start, 
and  has  been  disguising  his  anxiety  under  the  pretext  of  racing 
the  coats.  He  feels  proud  of  this  strong,  brave  man,  the  cold 
terror  passes  from  his  limbs,  and  he  spurts  bravely. 

"  That's  a  little  man,"  says  David ;  "  we'll  catch  'em  yet. 
Lucky  it's  sandstone  yonder  'stead  o'  sand — no  fear  o'  gettin' 
sucked  in." 

Now  it  is  the  shore  that  seems  racing  to  meet  them — the  red 
reef  sticks  out  a  friendly  finger,  and  in  another  five  minutes 
they  are  perched  upon  it,  like  Gulliver  on  the  Brobdingnagian's 
thumb  ;  and  what  is  more,  they  tie  with  their  coats,  meeting  them 
just  at  the  landing-place. 

David  laughs  a  long  Homeric  laugh  at  the  queerness  of  the 
incident,  quivering  like  a  dog  that  shakes  himself  after  a  swim, 
and  Matt  smiles  too. 

11  Them  thar  sea-birds  air  a  bit  off  their  feed,  that's  a  fact," 
chuckles  David,  as  he  surveys  his  fish  ;  and  then  the  two  cut 
across  the  forest,  drying  and  steaming  in  the  sun,  the  elder 
exhorting  the  younger  to  silence,  and  hiding  the  prongless  pitch- 
forks in  the  hay-mow  before  they  enter  the  house,  all  smiles  and 
salmon. 

At  the  early  tea-supper  they  sit  in  dual  isolation  at  one  end 
of  the  table,  their  chairs  close.  But  lo !  Mrs.  Strang,  passing 
the  hot  flapjacks,  or  "  corn-dodgers,"  with  the  superfluous  peram- 
bulations of  an  excitable  temperament,  brushes  the  back  of  her 
hand  against  Matt's  shoulder  starts,  pauses,  and  brushes  it  with 
her  palm. 


30  THE    MASTER 

"  Why,  the  boy's  wringin'  wet !"  she  cries. 

"  We  went  wadin',"  David  reminds  her,  meekly. 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  wade  on  your  heads,"  she  retorts. 

"I  sorter  tumbled,"  Matt  puts  in,  anxious  to  exonerate  his 
father. 

Mrs.  Strang  passes  her  hand  down  her  husband's  jacket. 

"  An'  father  kinder  stooped  to  pick  me  up,"  adds  Matt. 

"  You're  a  nice  Moloch  to  trust  with  one's  children !"  she 
exclaims  in  terrible  accents. 

David  shrinks  before  the  blaze  of  her  eyes,  almost  feeling  his 
coat  drying  under  it. 

"  An'  when  you  kin't  manage  to  drownd  'em  you  try  to  kill 
'em  with  rheumatics,  and  then  /  hev  all  the  responsibility.  It's 
'nough  to  make  a  body  throw  up  the  position.  Take  off  your 
clothes,  both  o'  you." 

Both  of  them  look  at  each  other,  feeling  vaguely  the  indel- 
icacy of  stripping  at  table.  They  put  their  hands  to  their 
jackets  as  if  to  compromise,  then  a  simultaneous  recollection 
crimsons  their  faces  —  their  shirt-sleeves  are  gone.  So  David 
rises  solemnly  und  leads  the  way  up-stairs,  and  Matt  follows, 
and  Mrs.  Strang's  voice  brings  up  the  rear,  and  goes  with  them 
into  the  bedroom,  stinging  and  excoriating.  They  shut  the 
door,  but  it  comes  through  the  key-hole  and  winds  itself  about 
their  naked  limbs  (Mrs.  Strang  distributing  flapjacks  to  her 
brood  all  the  while) ;  and  David,  biting  his  lips  to  block  the 
muzzle  of  his  oath-repeater — for  he  never  swears  before  mother 
and  the  children  except  when  he  is  not  angry — suddenly  re- 
members that  if  he  is  to  join  his  ship  at  St.  John's  by  Thursday 
he  must  take  the  packet  from  Partridge  Island  to-morrow.  His. 
honey-moon  is  over ;  he  has  this  honey-moon  every  two  or  three 
years,  and  his  beautiful  beloved  is  all  amorousness  and  amiabil- 
ity, and  the  best  room  with  the  cane-bottomed  chairs  is  thrown 
open  for  occupation ;  but  after  a  few  weeks  Mrs.  Strang  is  re- 
possessed of  her  demon,  and  then  it  is  David  who  throws  up 
the  position,  and  goes  down  to  the  sea  in  a  ship,  and  does  more 
business — of  a  mysterious  sort — in  the  great  waters.  And  so 
on  the  morrow  of  the  adventure  he  kisses  his  bairns  and  his 
wife — all  amorousness  and  amiability  again — and  passes  with 


THE    DEAD    MAN    MAKES    HIS    FIRST  AND    LAST   APPEARANCE      31 

wavings  of  his  stick  along  the  dusty  road,  under  the  red  hem- 
locks, over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  so — into  the  great  Beyond. 
Passes,  and  with  him  all  that  savor  of  strange,  romantic  seas, 
all  that  flavor  of  bustling,  foreign  ports,  that  he  brings  to  the 
lonely  farm,  and  that  cling  about  it  even  in  his  absence,  exhal- 
ing from  envelopes  with  picturesque  stamps  and  letters  with  ex- 
otic headings  ;  passes,  narrowing  the  universe  for  his  little  ones, 
and  making  their  own  bit  of  soil  sterner  and  their  winter  colder. 
He  is  dead,  this  brawny,  sun-tanned  father,  incredibly  dead,  and 
the  dead  face  haunts  Matt — no  vaporous  mask,  but  stonily  sub- 
stantial, bobbing  grewsomely  in  a  green,  sickly  light,  fathoms 
down,  with  froth  on  its  lips,  and  slimy  things  of  the  sea  twining 
in  its  hair.  He  looks  questioningly  at  his  own  face  in  the  frag- 
ment of  mirror,  trying  to  realize  that  it,  too,  will  undergo  pet- 
rifaction, and  wondering  how  and  when.  He  looks  at  his  moth- 
er's face  furtively,  and  wonders  if  the  volcano  beneath  it  will 
ever  really  sleep ;  he  pictures  her  rigid  underground,  the  long, 
black  eyelashes  neatly  drawn  down,  and  is  momentarily  pleased 
with  the  piquant  contrast  they  make  with  the  waxen  skin.  Is 
it  possible  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  Harriet's  face  can  decay 
too?  Can  Billy  sink  to  a  painless  rest,  with  his  leg  perhaps 
growing  straight  again  ?  Ah !  mayhap  in  Billy's  case  Death 
were  no  such  grisly  mystery. 

Morbid  thoughts  enough  for  a  boy  who  should  be  profiting 
by  the  goodness  of  the  northwester  towards  boy  kind.  But 
even  before  this  greater  tragedy  last  year's  accident  had  taken 
the  zest  out  of  Matt's  enjoyment  of  the  ice  ;  in  former  good 
years  he  had  been  the  first  to  cut  fancy  figures  on  the  ponds  and 
frozen  marshes,  or  to  coast  down  the  slopes  in  a  barrel-stave  fit- 
ted with  an  upright  and  a  cross-piece — a  machine  of  his  own  in- 
vention worthy  of  the  race  of  craftsmen  from  which  he  sprang. 
But  this  year  the  glow  of  the  skater's  blood  became  the  heat  of 
remorse  when  he  saw  or  remembered  Billy's  wistful  eyes ;  he 
gave  up  skating  and  contented  himself  with  modelling  the  an- 
nual man  of  snow  for  the  school  at  Cobequid  Village. 

In  the  which  far-straggling  village  (to  take  time  a  little  by 
the  forelock)  his  father's  death  did  not  remain  a  wonder  for  the 
proverbial  nine  days.  For  a  week  the  voung  men  chewing  their 


32  THE    MASTER 

evening  quid  round  the  glowing  maple-wood  of  the  store  stove, 
or  on  milder  nights  tapping  their  toes  under  the  verandas  of  the 
one  village  road  as  they  gazed  up  vacantly  at  the  female  shad- 
ows flitting  across  the  gabled  dormer-windows  of  the  snow- 
roofed  wooden  houses,  spoke  in  their  slightly  nasal  accent  (with 
an  emphasis  on  the  "  r ")  of  the  "  pear'ls  of  the  watter,"  and 
calling  for  their  night's  letters  held  converse  with  the  postmis- 
tress on  "the  watter  and  its  pear'ls,"  and  expectorated  copious- 
ly, presumably  in  lieu  of  weeping.  And  the  outlying  farmers 
who  dashed  up  with  a  lively  jingle  of  sleigh-bells  to  tether  their 
horses  to  the  hitching-posts  outside  the  stores,  or  to  the  picket- 
fence  surrounding  the  little  wooden  meeting-house  (for  the  most 
combined  business  with  religion),  were  regaled  with  the  news 
ere  they  had  finished  swathing  their  beasts  in  their  buffalo 
robes  and  "  boots  " ;  and  it  lent  an  added  solemnity  to  the  appeal 
of  the  little  snow-crusted  spire  standing  out  ghostly  against  the 
indigo  sky,  and  of  the  frosty  windows  glowing  mystically  with 
blood  in  the  gleam  of  the  chandelier  lamps,  and,  mayhap, 
wrought  more  than  the  drawling  exposition  of  the  fusty,  frock- 
coated  minister.  And  the  old  grannies,  smoking  their  clay 
pipes  as  they  crouched  nid-nodding  over  the  winter  hearth,  their 
wizened  faces  ruddy  with  firelight,  mumbled  and  grunted  con- 
tentedly over  the  tidbit,  and  sighed  through  snuff-clogged  nos- 
trils as  they  spread  their  gnarled,  skinny  hands  to  the  dancing, 
balsamic  blaze.  But  after  everybody  had  mourned  and  moral- 
ized and  expectorated  for  seven  days  a  new  death  came  to  oust 
David  Strang's  from  popular  favor ;  a  death  which  had  not  only 
novelty,  but  equal  sensationalism,  combined  with  a  more  genu- 
inely local  tang,  for  it  involved  a  funeral  at  home.  Handsome 
Susan  Hailey,  driving  her  horses  recklessly,  her  black  feather 
waving  gallantly  in  the  wind,  had  dashed  her  sleigh  upon  a 
trunk,  uprooted  by  the  storm  and  hidden  by  the  snow.  She 
was  flung  forward,  her  head  striking  the  tree,  so  that  the  brave 
feather  dribbled  blood,  while  the  horses  bolted  off  to  Cobequid 
Village  to  bear  the  tragic  news  in  the  empty  sleigh.  And  so 
the  young  men,  with  the  carbuncles  of  tobacco  in  their  cheek, 
expectorated  more  and  spoke  of  the  "  pear'ls  of  the  land,"  and 
walking  home  from  the  singing-class  the  sopranos  discussed  it 


THE    THOUGHTS     OF    YOUTH  33 

with  the  basses,  and  in  the  sewing-circles,  where  the  matrons 
met  to  make  undergarments  for  the  heathen,  there  was  much 
shaking  of  the  head,  with  retrospective  prophesyings  and  whis- 
pers of  drink,  and  commiseration  for  "  Ole  Hey,"  and  all  the 
adjacent  villages  went  to  the  sermon  at  the  house,  the  deceased 
lady  being,  as  the  minister  (to  whose  salary  she  annually  con- 
tributed two  kegs  of  rum)  remarked  in  his  nasal  address,  "  uni- 
versally respected."  And  everybody,  including  the  Strangs  and 
their  collie,  went  on  to  the  lonesome  graveyard — some  on  horse 
and  some  on  foot  and  some  in  sleighs,  the  coffin  leading  the  way 
in  a  pung,  or  long  box-sleigh — a  far-stretching,  black,  nonde- 
script procession,  crawling  dismally  over  the  white,  moaning 
landscape,  between  the  zigzag  ridges  of  snow  marking  the  bur- 
ied fences,  past  the  trailing  disconsolate  firs,  and  under  the 
white  funereal  plumes  of  the  pines. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    THOUGHTS    OF    YOUTH 


OTHER  rumors,  too,  came  by  coach  to  the  village — rumors  of 
blizzard  and  shipwreck — each  with  its  opportunities  of  exhorta- 
tion and  expectoration.  But  in  the  lonely  forest  home,  past 
which  the  dazzling  mail-coach  rattled  with  only  a  blast  on  the 
horn,  the  tragic  end  of  David  Strang  stood  out  in  equal  loneli- 
ness. For  Death,  when  he  smites  the  poor,  often  cuts  off  not 
only  the  beloved,  but  the  bread-winner ;  and  though,  in  a  literal 
sense,  the  Strangs  made  their  own  bread,  yet  it  was  David  who 
kept  the  roof  over  their  head  and  the  ground  under  their  feet. 
But  for  his  remittances  the  interest  on  the  mortgage,  under 
which  they  held  the  farm  and  the  house,  could  not  have  been 
paid,  for  the  produce  of  the  clearing,  the  bit  of  buckwheat  and 
barley,  barely  maintained  the  cultivators,  both  Harriet  and  Matt 
eking  out  the  resources  of  the  family  by  earning  a  little  in  kind, 
sometimes  even  in  money.  Matt  was  a  skilful  soapmaker,  deco- 
rating his  bars  with  fanciful  devices ;  and  he  delighted  in 


34  THE    MASTER 

"  sugaring  " — a  poetic  process  involving  a  temporary  residence 
in  a  log-hut  or  a  lumberman's  cabin  in  the  heart  of  the  forest. 

Now  that  the  overdue  mortgage  money  had  gone  to  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  more  money  must  be  raised  immediately. 
That  the  dead  man  had  any  claim  upon  the  consideration  of 
his  employers  did  not  occur  to  the  bereaved  family ;  rather,  it 
seemed,  he  owed  the  owners  compensation  for  the  lost  Sally 
Bell.  A  family  council  was  held  on  the  evening  of  the  day  so 
blackly  begun.  Not  even  the  baby  was  excluded — it  sat  before 
the  open-doored  stove  on  its  mother's  lap  and  crowed  at  the  great 
burning  logs  that  silhouetted  the  walls  with  leaping  shadows. 
Sprat,  too,  was  present,  crouched  on  "  Matt's  mat "  (as  the  chil- 
dren called  the  rag  mat  their  brother  had  braided),  thrusting 
forward  his  black  muzzle  when  the  door  rattled  with  special 
violence,  and  by  his  side  lay  the  boy  staring  into  the  tumbling 
flames,  yet  taking  the  lead  in  the  council  with  a  new  authorita- 
tive ring  in  his  voice. 

Wherever  the  realities  of  life  beleaguer  the  soul,  there  chil- 
dren are  born  serious,  and  experience  soon  puts  an  old  head  on 
young  shoulders.  The  beady-eyed  pappoose  that  the  Indian 
squaw  carries  sandwichwise  'twixt  back  and  board  does  not 
cry.  Dump  it  down,  and  it  stands  stolid  like  a  pawn  on  a  chess- 
board. Hang  it  on  a  projecting  knot  in  the  props  of  a  wig- 
wam, and  it  sways  like  a  snared  rabbit.  Matt  Strang,  strenuous 
little  soul,  had  always  a  gravity  beyond  his  years :  his  father's 
removal  seemed  to  equal  his  years  to  his  gravity.  He  knew 
himself  the  head  of  the  house.  Harriet,  despite  her  superior 
summers,  was  of  the  wrong  sex,  and  his  mother,  though  she 
had  physical  force  to  back  her,  was  not  a  reasoning  being. 
For  a  time,  no  doubt,  she  would  be  quieted  by  the  peace  of  the 
grave  which  all  but  the  crowing  infant  felt  solemnizing  the 
household,  but  Matt  had  no  hope  of  more  than  a  truce. 

It  was  the  boy's  brain  and  the  boy's  voice  that  prevailed  at 
the  council-fire.  Daisy  was  to  be  killed  and  salted  down  and 
sold — fortunately  she  was  getting  on  in  years,  and,  besides, 
they  could  never  have  had  the  heart  to  eat  their  poor  old  friend 
themselves,  with  her  affectionate  old  nose  and  her  faithful 
udders.  The  calves  were  to  become  veal,  and  all  this  meat, 


THE    THOUGHTS    OF    YOUTH  35 

together  with  the  fodder  thus  set  free,  Deacon  Hailey  was  to  be 
besought  to  take  at  a  valuation,  in  lieu  of  the  mortgage  money, 
for  money  itself  could  not  be  hoped  for  from  Cobequid  Vil- 
lage. Though  the  "  almighty  dollar  "  ruled  here  as  elsewhere,  it 
was  an  unseen  monarch,  whose  imperial  court  was  at  Halifax. 
There  Matt  might  have  got  current  coin,  here  barter  was  all  the 
vogue.  Accounts  were  kept  in  English  money  ;  it  was  not  till  a 
few  years  later  that  the  dollar  became  the  standard  coin.  For 
their  own  eating  Matt  calculated  that  he  would  catch  more  rab- 
bits and  shoot  more  partridges  than  in  years  of  yore,  and  in  the 
summer  he  would  work  on  neighboring  farms.  Harriet  would 
have  to  extend  her  sewing  practice,  and  collaborate  with  Matt 
in  making  shad-nets  for  the  fishermen,  and  Mrs.  Strang  would 
get  spinning  jobs  from  the  farmers'  wives.  Which  being  settled 
with  a  definiteness  that  left  even  a  balance  of  savings,  the 
widow  handed  the  infant  in  her  arms  to  Harriet,  and,  replac- 
ing it  by  the  big  Bible,  she  slipped  on  her  spectacles  with  a 
nervous,  involuntary  glance  round  the  kitchen,  and  asked  the 
six-year-old  Teddy  to  stick  a  finger  into  the  book.  Opening 
the  holy  tome  at  that  place,  she  began  to  read  from  the  head  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter  in  a  solemn,  prophetic  voice  that  suited 
with  her  black  cap  pinched  up  at  the  edges.  She  had  no  choice 
of  texts ;  pricking  was  her  invariable  procedure  when  she  felt  a 
call  to  prelection,  and  the  issue  was  an  uncertainty  dubiously 
delightful ;  for  one  day  there  would  be  a  story  or  a  miracle  to 
stir  the  children's  blood,  and  another  day  a  bald  genealogy,  and 
a  third  day  a  chapter  of  Revelation,  all  read  with  equal  rever- 
ence as  equally  inspiring  parts  of  an  equally  inspired  whole. 

Matt  breathed  freely  when  his  mother  announced  Ezra,  chap, 
x.,  not  because  he  had  any  interest  in  Ezra,  but  because  he 
knew  it  was  a  pictureless  portion.  When  the  text  was  liable 
to  be  interrupted  by  illustrations,  the  reading  was  liable  to  be 
interrupted  by  remonstrances,  for  scarce  a  picture  but  bore  the 
marks  of  his  illuminating  brush,  and  his  rude  palette  of  ground 
charcoal,  chalk,  and  berry  -  juice.  He  had  been  prompted  to 
color  before  his  hand  itched  to  imitate,  and  in  later  years  these 
episodes  of  the  far  East  had  found  their  way  to  planed  boards 
of  Western  pine,  with  the  figures  often  in  new  experimental 


36  THE    MASTER 

combinations,  and  these  scenes  were  in  their  turn  planed  away 
to  make  room  for  others  equally  unsatisfactory  to  the  critical 
artist.  But  his  mother  had  never  been  able  to  forgive  the  in- 
iquities of  his  prime,  not  even  after  she  had  executed  vengeance 
on  the  sinner.  She  had  brought  the  sacred  volume  from  her 
home  at  Halifax,  and  a  colored  Bible  she  had  never  seen ;  color 
made  religion  cheerful,  destroyed  its  essential  austerity  —  it 
could  no  more  be  conceived  apart  from  black  and  white  than  a 
minister  of  the  Gospel.  An  especial  grievance  hovered  about 
the  early  chapters  of  Exodus,  for  Matt  had  stained  the  Red  Sea 
with  the  reddish  hue  of  the  Bay  of  Fundy — a  sacrilege  to  his 
mother,  to  whose  fervid  imagination  the  Sea  of  Miracles  loomed 
lurid  with  sacred  sanguineousness  to  which  no  profane  water 
offered  any  parallel. 

But  Ezra  is  far  from  Exodus,  and  to-night  the  reminder  was 
not  likely.  A  gleam  of  exaltation  illumined  the  reader's  eyes 
when  she  read  the  first  verse ;  at  the  second  her  face  seemed  to 
flush  as  if  the  firelight  had  shot  up  suddenly. 

"  '  Now  when  Ezra  hed  prayed  an'  when  he  hed  confessed, 
weepin'  an'  castin'  himself  down  before  the  house  of  God,  there 
assembled  unto  him  out  of  Israel  a  very  great  congregation  of 
men  and  women  and  children :  fur  the  people  wept  very  sore. 

"  *  An'  Shechaniah  the  son  of  Jehiel,  one  of  the  sons  of 
Elam,  answered  an'  said  unto  Ezra,  We  hev  trespassed  against 
our  God,  an'  hev  taken  strange  wives  of  the  people  of  the 
land. 

She  read  on,  pausing  only  at  the  ends  of  the  verses.  Harriet 
knitted  stockings  over  baby's  head ;  the  smaller  children  lis- 
tened in  awe.  Matt's  thoughts  soon  passed  from  Shechaniah, 
the  son  of  Jehiel,  uninterested  even  by  his  relationship  to  Elam. 
Usually  when  the  subject-matter  was  dull,  and  when  he  was 
tired  of  watching  the  wavering  shadows  on  the  gray-plastered 
walls,  he  got  up  a  factitious  interest  by  noting  the  initial  letter 
of  each  verse  and  timing  its  length,  in  view  of  his  Sunday- 
school  task  of  memorizing  for  each  week  a  verse  beginning 
wi£h  some  specified  letter.  His  verbal  memory  being  indifferent, 
he  would  spend  hours  in  searching  for  the  tiniest  verse,  wast- 
ing thereby  an  amount  of  time  in  which  he  could  have  overcome 


THE    THOUGHTS    OF    YOUTH  37 

the  longest ;  though,  as  he  indirectly  scanned  great  tracts  of  the 
Bible,  it  may  be  this  ABC  business  was  but  the  device  of  a 
crafty  deacon  skilled  in  the  young  idea.  However  this  be, 
Matt's  mind  was  deeplier  moved  to-night.  The  shriek  of  the 
blind  wind  without  contrasted  with  the  cheerful  crackle  of  the 
logs  within,  and  the  woful  contrast  brought  up  that  weird  im- 
age destined  to  haunt  him  for  so  long. 

He  shuddered  to  think  of  it — down  there  in  the  cold,  ex- 
cluded forever  from  the  warm  hearth  of  life.  Was  not  that 
its  voice  in  the  wind — wailing,  crying  to  be  let  in,  shaking  the 
door  ?  His  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Vaguely  he  heard  his 
mother's  voice  intoning  solemnly. 

"  'An'  of  the  sons  of  Immer ;  Hanani,  and  Zebadiah.  An'  of 
the  sons  of  Harim ;  Maaseiah,  an'  Elijah,  an'  Shemaiah,  an'  Jehiel, 
an'  Uzziah.  An'  of  the  sons  of  Pashur.  .  .  .'  " 

The  baby  was  still  smiling,  and  tangling  Harriet's  knitting, 
but  Billy  had  fallen  asleep,  and  presently  Matt  found  himself 
studying  the  flicker  of  the  firelight  upon  the  little  cripple's 
pinched  face. 

" '  An'  of  the  sons  of  Zattu ;  Elioenai,  Eliashib,  Mattaniah, 
an'  Jeremoth,  an'  Zabad,  an'  Aziza.  Of  the  sons  also  of  Be- 
bai '" 

The  prophetic  voice  rose  and  fell  unwaveringly,  unweary- 
ingly. 

"Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  write  and  tell  Uncle  Matt?"  came 
suddenly  from  the  brooding  boy's  lips. 

"  Silence,  you  son  of  Belial !"  cried  his  mother  indignantly. 
"  How  dare  you  interrupt  the  chapter,  so  near  the  end,  too ! 
Uncle  Matt,  indeed  !  What's  the  mortal  use  of  writin'  to  him, 
I  should  like  to  know  ?  Do  you  think  he's  likely  to  repent  any, 
to  disgorge  our  land?  Why,  he  don't  deserve  to  know  his 
brother's  dead,  the  everlastin'  Barabbas.  If  he'd  hed  to  do  o' 
me  he  wouldn't  hev  found  it  so  easy  to  make  away  with  our  in- 
heritance, I  do  allow,  and  my  poor  David  would  hev  been  alive, 
and  to  home  here  with  us  to-night,  thet's  a  fact.  Christ  hev 
mercy  on  us  all."  She  burst  into  tears,  blistering  the  precious 
page.  Harriet  ceased  to  ply  her  needles ;  they  seemed  to  be 
going  through  her  bosom.  The  baby  enjoyed  a  free  hand  with 


38  THE    MASTER 

the  wool.  Billy  slept  on.  Presently  Mrs.  Strang  choked  back 
her  sobs,  wiped  her  eyes,  and  resumed  in  a  steady,  reverential 
voice : 

"  '  Machnadebai,  Shashai,  Sharai,  Azareel,  an'  Shelemiah, 
Shemariah,  Shallum,  Amariah,  an'  Joseph.  Of  the  sons  of 
Nebo;  Jeiel,  Mattithiah,  Zabad,  Zebina,  Jadau,  an'  Joel,  Be- 
naiah. 

"  '  All  these  hed  taken  strange  wives,  an'  some  of  them  hed 
wives  by  whom  they  hed  children.'  ' 

Her  voice  fell  with  the  well-known  droop  that  marked  the 
close.  "  Anyways,"  she  added,  "  I  don't  know  your  uncle's  ad- 
dress. London  is  a  big  place — considerable  bigger  nor  Halifax  ; 
an'  he'll  allow  we  want  to  beg  of  him.  Never !"  She  shut  the 
book  with  an  emphatic  bang,  and  Matt  rose  from  Sprat's  side 
and  put  it  away. 

"  Of  course,  I  sha'n't  go  back  to  school  any  more,"  he  said, 
lightly,  remembering  the  point  had  not  come  up. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will."  His  mother's  first  instinct  was  always 
of  contradiction. 

"  I  may  get  a  job  an'  raise  a  little  money  towards  the  mort- 
gage." 

"  What  job  kin  you  get  in  the  winter  ?" 

"  Why,  I  kin  winnow  wheat  some,"  he  reminded  her,  "  an* 
chop  the  neighbors'  wood,  an'  sort  the  vegetables  in  their 
cellars." 

"  An'  whatever  you  make  by  thet,"  she  reminded  him,  "  you'll 
overbalance  by  what  you'd  be  givin'  away  to  the  school-master. 
You've  paid  Alic  McTavit  to  the  end  o'  the  season." 

"  I  guess  you're  off  the  track  this  load  o'  poles,  mother,"  said 
Matt,  amused  by  her  muddled  finance. 

Yet  it  was  the  less  logical  if  even  more  specious  argument  of 
completing  the  snow  months  (for  only  young  and  useless  chil- 
dren went  to  school  in  the  summer)  that  appealed  to  him.  The 
human  mind  is  strangely  under  the  sway  of  times  and  seasons, 
and  the  calendar  is  the  stanchest  ally  of  sloth  and  procrastina- 
tion, and  so  Mrs.  Strang  settled  in  temporary  triumph  to  her 
task  of  making  new  black  mourning  dresses  for  the  girls  out  of 
her  old  merino,  and  a  few  days  afterwards,  when  Matt  had  carried 


THE    THOUGHTS    OF   YOUTH  39 

out  his  financial  programme  satisfactorily  (except  that  Deacon 
Hailey's  valuation  did  not  afford  the  estimated  surplus),  he  joined 
the  other  children  in  their  pilgrimage  schoolward.  The  young 
Strangs  amounted  to  a  procession.  At  its  head  came  Matt, 
drawing  Billy  on  a  little  hand-sled  by  a  breast-rope  that  came 
through  the  auger-holes  in  the  peaks  of  the  runners,  and  the  end 
of  Sprat,  who  sneaked  after  the  children,  formed  a  literal  tail 
to  it,  till,  arriving  too  far  to  be  driven  back,  the  animal  ran  to 
the  front  in  fearless  gambollings.  This  morning  the  air  was 
keen  and  bright,  the  absence  of  wind  preventing  the  real'  tem- 
perature from  being  felt,  and  the  sun  lit  up  the  white  woods 
with  cold  sparkle.  Ere  the  children  had  covered  the  two  miles 
most  of  them  conceived  such  a  new  appetite  that  their  fingers 
itched  to  undo  their  lunch  packets.  A  halt  was  called,  the 
bread-and-molasses  was  unwrapped,  and  while  the  future  was 
being  recklessly  sacrificed  to  the  present  by  the  younger  sav- 
ages, Matt  edified  them  by  drawing  on  the  snow  with  the  point 
of  Billy's  crutch.  They  followed  the  development  of  these 
designs  with  vociferous  anticipation,  one  shouting,  "  A  cow," 
and  another  "  Ole  Hey  "  before  more  than  a  curve  was  outlined. 
Matt  always  amused  himself  by  commencing  at  the  most  un- 
likely part  of  the  figure,  and  working  round  gradually  in  unex- 
pected ways,  so  as  to  keep  the  secret  to  the  last  possible  mo- 
ment. Sometimes,  when  it  had  been  guessed  too  early,  he 
would  contrive  to  convert  a  fox  into  a  moose,  his  enjoyment  of 
his  dexterity  countervailing  the  twinge  of  his  conscience.  To- 
day all  the  animals  were  tamer  than  usual.  The  boy  drew  list- 
lessly, abstractedly,  unresentful  when  his  secret  was  guessed  in 
the  first  stages.  And  at  last,  half  of  itself,  the  crutch  began  to 
shape  a  Face — a  Face  with  shut  eyes  and  dripping  hair,  indefin- 
ably uncanny. 

"  Father !"  cried  Ted,  in  thick,  triumphant  tones,  exultation 
tempered  by  mastication.  But  the  older  children  held  their 
breath,  and  Teddy's  exclamation  was  succeeded  by  an  awesome 
silence.  Suddenly  a  sagging  bough  snapped  and  fell,  the  collie 
howled,  and  Matt,  roused  from  his  reverie,  saw  that  Billy's  face 
had  grown  white  as  the  dead  snow.  The  child  was  palsied 
with  terror;  Matt  feared  one  of  his  fits  was  coming  on.  In  a 


40  THE    MASTER 

frenzy  of  remorse  he  blurred  out  the  face  with  the  crutch,  and 
hustled  the  sled  forward,  singing  cheerily  : 

"Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild, 
Look  upon  a  little  child  , 
Pity  my  simplicity, 
And  suffer  me  to  come  to  Thee." 

The  children  took  up  the  burden,  sifting  themselves  instinc- 
tively into  trebles  and  seconds  in  a  harmony  loud  enough  to 
rouse  the  hibernating  bear.  Billy's  face  returned  to  its  normal 
pallor,  and  Matt's  to  its  abstraction. 

In  the  school-room — a  bare,  plastered  room,  cold  and  unin- 
viting, with  a  crowd  of  boys  and  girls  at  its  notched  pine  desks 
— he  continued  pensive.  There  was  nothing  to  distract  his 
abstraction,  for  even  Ruth  Hailey  was  away.  The  geography 
lesson  roused  him  to  a  temporary  attention.  London  flitted 
across  his  dreams — the  Halifax  of  England,  that  mighty  city  in 
which  pictures  were  saleable  for  actual  coin,  and  a  mighty  pict- 
ure-maker, the  Matt  Strang  of  England,  was  paid  for  play  as  if 
for  work.  But  the  reading-book,  with  its  menu  of  solid  stories 
and  essays,  peppered  with  religious  texts,  restored  him  to  his 
reveries.  McTavit,  who  was  shaping  quills  with  his  knife, 
called  upon  him  to  commence  the  chapter ;  but  he  stared  at  the 
little  pedagogue  blankly,  unaware  of  the  call.  He  was  noting 
dreamily  how  his  jagged  teeth  showed  beneath  the  thin,  snuffy 
upper  lip,  and  the  trick  the  mouth  had  of  remaining  wide  open 
after  it  had  ceased  talking.  He  tried  to  analyze  why  McTavit 
was  not  smiling.  Months  ago,  seeking  to  make  his  figures 
smile,  the  boy  had  discovered  the  rident  effect  of  a  wide  mouth, 
and  now  he  essayed  to  analyze  the  subtle  muscular  movements 
that  separate  the  sublime  from  the  ridiculous.  Suddenly  the 
haunting  thought  recurred  to  him  with  a  new  application. 
Even  McTavit's  freckled  face  would  one  day  be  frozen — those 
twitching  eyelids  still,  the  thin  wide  lips  shut  forever.  How 
long  more  would  he  stride  about  his  motley  school-room,  scat- 
tering blows  and  information  ?  Would  he  come  to  a  stop  in  the 
school-room  as  the  clock  sometimes  did,  grown  suddenly  silent, 
its  oil  congealed  by  the  intense  cold  ?  Or  would  Death  find 


THE    THOUGHTS    OF    YOUTH  41 

him  in  bed,  ready  stretched  ?  And  the  restless  boys  and  girls 
around  him — good  God ! — they,  too,  would  one  day  be  very 
peaceful — mere  blocks — Carroty  Kitty,  who  was  pinching  Amy 
Warren's  arm,  and  Peter  Besant,  who  was  throwing  those  pel- 
lets of  bread,  and  even  Simon  the  Sneak's  wagging  tongue 
would  be  still  as  a  plummet.  They  would  all  grow  rigid  alike, 
not  all  at  once,  nor  in  one  way,  but  some  very  soon,  perhaps, 
and  others  when  they  were  grown  tall,  and  yet  others  when  they 
were  bent  and  grizzled ;  some  on  sea  and  some  on  land,  some  in 
this  part  of  the  map  and  some  in  that,  some  peacefully,  some  in 
pain  ;  petrified  one  by  one,  ruthlessly,  remorselessly,  impartially  ; 
till  at  last  all  the  busy  hubbub  was  hushed,  and  of  all  that  lively 
crew  of  youngsters  not  one  was  left  to  feel  the  sun  and  the  rain. 
The  pity  of  it  thrilled  him  ;  even  McTavit's  freckled  face  grew 
softer  through  the  veil  of  mist.  Then,  as  his  vision  cleared,  he 
saw  the  face  was  really  darker :  strange  emotions  seemed  to 
agitate  it. 

"  So  ye're  obstinate,  are  ye  ?"  it  screamed,  with  startling  sud- 
denness. At  the  same  instant  something  shining  flew  through 
the  air,  and,  whizzing  past  Matt's  ear,  sent  back  a  little  thud 
from  behind.  Matt  turned  his  head  in  astonishment,  and  saw 
a  penknife  quivering  in  the  wall.  He  turned  back  in  fresh  sur- 
prise, and  saw  that  McTavit's  face  had  changed,  lobster  -  like, 
from  black  to  red,  as  its  owner  realized  how  near  had  been 
Matt's  (and  his  own)  escape. 

"  Eh,  awake  at  last,  sleepy-head,"  he  blustered.  "  There's  na 
gettin'  your  attention.  Well,  what  are  ye  starin'  at  ?  Are  ye 
na  goin'  to  fetch  me  my  knife  ?" 

"  I'm  not  a  dog,"  answered  Matt,  sullenly. 

"  Then  dinna  bark  !  Ye  think  because  ye've  lost  your  father 
ye're  preevileged  —  to  lose  your  manners,"  he  added,  with  an 
epigrammatic  afterthought  that  mollified  him  more  than  an 
apology.  "  I'm  verra  obleeged  to  you,"  he  concluded,  with 
elaborate  emphasis,  as  Simon  the  Sneak  handed  him  the  knife. 

"  Now,  then,  sleepy-head,"  he  said  again,  "  p'r'aps  ye'll  read 
your  paragraph — that's  richt,  Simon  ,*  show  him  the  place." 

McTavit  hailed  from  Cape  Breton  Isle,  and  was  popularly 
supposed  to  soliloquize  in  Gaelic.  This  hurt  him  when  he  pro- 


42  THE    MASTER 

posed  to  the  postmistress,  who  had  been  to  boarding-school  in 
Truro.  She  declared  she  would  not  have  a  man  who  did  not 
speak  good  English. 

"  I  do  speak  guid  English,"  he  protested,  passionately.  "  Mebbe 
not  in  the  school-room,  when  I'm  talkin'  only  to  my  pupils,  and  it 
dinna  matter,  but  in  private  and  in  society  I'm  most  parteecular." 

McTavit  was  still  a  bachelor,  and  still  spoke  guid  English. 
When  the  reading-lesson  had  come  to  an  end,  Matt  was  left  again 
to  his  own  thoughts,  for  while  poor  McTavit  gave  the  juniors 
an  exercise  in  grammar  which  they  alleviated  by  gum-chewing, 
Matt  and  a  few  other  pupils  were  allotted  the  tranquillizing 
task  of  multiplying  in  copy-books  £3949  17s.  life?,  by  7958. 
The  sums  were  so  colossal  that  Matt  wondered  whether  they 
existed  in  the  world ;  and  if  so,  how  many  pictures  it  would  be 
necessary  to  make  to  obtain  them.  An  awful  silence  brooded 
over  the  room,  for  when  written  exercises  were  on,  the  pupils 
took  care  to  do  their  talking  silently,  lest  they  should  be  sus- 
pected of  copying,  this  being  what  they  were  doing.  There 
was  a  little  museum  case  behind  McTavit's  desk,  containing 
stuffed  skunks  and  other  animals  and  local  minerals  lovingly 
collected  by  him — stilbite  and  heulandite  and  quartz  and  ame- 
thyst and  spar  and  bits  of  jasper  and  curiously  clouded  agate, 
picked  up  near  Cape  Blomidon  amid  the  debris  of  crumbling 
cliffs.  At  such  times  McTavit  would  stand  absorbed  in  the 
contemplation  of  his  treasures,  his  rod  carelessly  tucked  under 
his  arm,  as  one  "the  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot." 
Then  the  tension  of  silence  became  positively  painful,  for  the 
school-room  had  long  since  discovered  that  the  museum  case 
was  a  reflector,  and  McTavit,  though  he  prided  himself  on  the 
secret  of  his  Argus  eye,  never  caught  any  but  novices  not  yet 
initiated  into  the  traditions.  Imagine,  therefore,  the  shock  both 
to  him  and  the  room,  when  to-day  the  acute  stillness  was  broken 
by  a  loud  cry  of  "  Bang !  bang !  bang !"  An  irresistible  guf- 
faw swept  over  the  school,  and  under  cover  of  the  laughter  the 
cute  and  ready  collogued  as  to  "  answers." 

"  Silence  !"  thundered  McTavit.     "  Who  was  that  ?" 

In  the  even  more  poignant  silence  of  reaction  a  small  still 
voice  was  heard. 


THE    THOUGHTS    OF    YOUTH  43 

"  Please,  sir,  it  was  me,"  said  Matt,  remorsefully. 

"  Oh,  it  was  you,  was  it  ?  Then  here's  bang  !  bang !  bang !  for 
ye."  And  as  he  spoke  the  angry  little  man  accentuated  each 
"bang "with  a  vicious  thwack.  Then  his  eye  caught  sight  of 
Matt's  copy-book.  In  lieu  of  ranged  columns  of  figures  was  a 
rough  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  a  line  of  great  war-ships  overhung 
by  smoke-clouds,  and  apparently  converging  all  their  batteries 
against  one  little  ship,  on  whose  deck  a  stalwart  man  stood  soli- 
tary, wrapped  in  a  flag. 

McTavit  choked  with  added  rage. 

"  D-defacin'  your  books  agen.  What — what  d'ye  call  that  ?" 
he  spluttered. 

"  Blockade,"  said  Matt,  sulkily. 

"  Blockhead  !"  echoed  McTavit,  and  was  so  pleased  with  the 
universal  guffaw  (whereof  the  cute  and  ready  took  advantage  to 
compare  notes  as  before)  that  he  contented  himself  with  the 
one  slash  that  was  necessary  to  drive  the  jest  home.  But  it 
was  one  slash  too  much.  Matt's  vocal  cannonade  had  been 
purely  involuntary,  but  he  was  willing  to  suffer  for  his  over-vivid 
imagination.  The  last  insult,  however — subtly  felt  as  an  injury 
to  his  dead  father,  too — set.  his  blood  on  fire.  He  suddenly  re- 
membered that  this  blockhead  was,  at  any  rate,  the  "  head  "  of  a 
family  ;  that  he  could  no  longer  afford  to  be  degraded  before  the 
little  ones,  who  were  looking  on  with  pain  and  awe.  He  rose 
and  walked  towards  the  door. 

"  Where  are  ye  goin'  ?"  cried  McTavit. 

"  To  find  Captain  Kidd's  treasure.  I've  learned  all  I  want  to 
know,"  said  Matt. 

"  Ye'd  better  come  back." 

Matt  turned,  walked  back  to  his  seat,  possessed  himself  of  his 
half-empty  copy-book,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"  Good-bye,  you  fellers,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  as  he  passed  out. 
The  girls  he  ignored. 

McTavit  gave  chase  with  raised  rod,  regardless  of  the  pande- 
monium that  rose  up  in  his  wake.     Matt  was  walking  slowly 
across  the  field,  with  Sprat  leaping  up  to  lick  his  face.     The  dog- 
had  rejoined  him.     McTavit  went  back,  his  rod  hanging  down 
behind. 


44  THE    MASTER 

Matt  walked  on  sadly,  his  blood  cooled  by  the  sharp  air. 
Another  link  with  the  past  was  broken  forever.  He  looked 
back  at  the  simple  wooden  school-house,  with  the  ensign  of 
smoke  fluttering  above  its  pitched  roof ;  kinder  memories  of 
McTavit  surged  at  his  heart — his  little  jests  at  the  expense  of 
the  boys,  his  occasional  reminiscences  of  his  native  Cape  Breton 
and  of  St.  John,  New  Brunswick,  with  its  mighty  cathedral,  the 
Life  of  Napoleon  he  had  lent  him  last  year,  his  prowess  with 
line  and  hook  the  summer  he  boarded  with  the  Strangs  in  lieu 
of  school-fees,  and  then — with  a  sudden  flash — came  the  crown- 
ing recollection  of  his  talent  for  cutting  turreted  castles,  and 
tigers,  and  anything  you  pleased,  out  of  the  close-grained  bis- 
cuits and  the  chunks  of  buckwheat-cake  the  children  brought 
for  lunch.  Matt's  thoughts  went  back  to  the  beginnings  of  his 
school  career,  when  McTavit  had  spurred  him  on  to  master  the 
alphabet  by  transforming  his  buckwheat-cake  into  any  animal 
from  ass  to  zebra.  He  remembered  the  joy  with  which  he  had 
ordered  and  eaten  his  first  elephant.  Pausing  a  moment  to  cut 
a  stick  and  drive  Sprat  off  with  it,  he  walked  back  into  the  won- 
dering school-room. 

"  Please,  sir,  I'm  sorry  I  went  away  so  rudely,"  he  said,  "  and 
I've  cut  you  a  new  birch  rod." 

McTavit  was  touched. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  simply,  as  he  took  it.  "  What's  the 
matter  ?"  he  roared,  seeing  Simon  the  Sneak's  hand  go  up. 

"  Please,  sir,  hedn't  you  better  try  if  he  hesn't  split  it  and 
put  a  hair  in  ?" 

"  Grand  idea  !"  yelled  McTavit,  grimly.     "  How's  that  ?" 

And  the  new  birch  rod  made  its  trial  slash  at  the  raised 
hand. 


CHAPTER  IV 
"  MAN    PROPOSES " 

MRS.  STRANG  was  busy  in  Deacon  Hailey's  kitchen.  The 
providential  death  of  Mrs.  Hailey  had  given  her  chores  to  do  at 
the  homestead ;  for  female  servants — or  even  male — were  scarce 
in  the  colony,  and  Ruth  had  been  brought  up  by  her  mother 
to  play  on  the  harpsichord. 

When  Mrs.  Strang  got  home  after  a  three-mile  walk,  some- 
times through  sleet  and  slush,  she  would  walk  up  and  down  till 
the  small  hours,  spinning  carded  wool  into  yarn  at  her  great  un- 
couth wheel,  and  weeping  automatically  at  her  loneliness,  reft 
even  of  the  occasional  husband  for  whom  she  had  forsaken  the 
great  naval  city  of  her  girlhood,  the  beautiful  century-old  capi- 
tal. "  It's  'nough  to  make  a  body  throw  up  the  position,"  she 
would  cry  hysterically  to  the  deaf  rafters  when  the  children  were 
asleep  and  only  the  wind  was  awake.  But  the  droning  wheel 
went  round  just  the  same,  steady  as  the  wheel  of  time  (Mrs. 
Strang  moving  to  and  fro  like  a  shuttle),  till  the  task  was  com- 
pleted, and  morning  often  found  her  ill-rested  and  fractious  and 
lachrymose.  Matt  would  have  pitied  her  more  if  she  had  pitied 
herself  less.  In  the  outside  world,  however,  she  had  no  airs  of 
martyrdom,  bearing  herself  genially  and  independently.  At  the 
"  revivals  "  held  in  private  nouses  she  was  an  important  sinful 
figure,  though  neither  Harriet  nor  Matt  had  yet  found  grace  or 
membership.  She  smiled  a  pleasant  response  to-night  when 
Deacon  Hailey  came  in  from  the  tannery  and  said  "  Good-even- 
in'."  It  was  a  large,  low  kitchen,  heated  by  an  American  stove, 
with  a  gleaming  dresser  and  black  wooden  beams,  from  which 
hams  hung.  The  deacon  felt  more  comfortable  there  than  in 
the  room  in  which  Ruth  was  at  that  moment  engaged  in  tink- 


46  THE    MASTER 

ling  the  harpsichord,  a  room  that  contained  other  archaic  heir- 
looms :  old  china,  a  tapestry  screen,  scriptural  mottoes  worked 
in  ancestral  hair,  and  a  large  colored  lithograph  of  the  Ark  on 
Mount  Ararat,  for  refusing  to  come  away  from  which  Matt  had 
once  been  clouted  by  his  mother  before  all  the  neighbors.  The 
house  was,  indeed,  uncommonly  luxurious,  sheltered  by  double 
doors  and  windows,  and  warmly  wrapped  in  its  winter  cincture 
of  tan-bark. 

"An'  how's  Billy?"  asked  the  deacon.  "Some  folks 'ud  say 
how's  Billy's  mother,  but  thet  I  can  see  fur  myself — rael  bonny 
and  han'sum,  thet's  a  fact.  It's  sick  folk  es  a  Christian  should 
inquire  arter,  hey  ?" 

"  Billy's  jest  the  same,"  replied  Mrs.  Strang,  her  handsome 
face  clouding. 

"  No  more  fits,  hey  ?" 

"  No ;  not  for  a  long  time,  thank  God.  But  he'll  never  be 
straight  again." 

"  Ah,  Mrs.  Strang,  we're  all  crooked  somehow.  'Tis  the 
Lord's  will,  you  may  depend.  Since  my  poor  Susan  was  took, 
my  heart's  all  torn  and  mangled  ;  my  heartstrings  kinder  twist- 
ed 'bout  her  grave.  Ah  !  never  kin  I  forgit  her.  Love  is  love, 
I  allus  thinks.  My  time  was  spent  so  happy,  plannin'  how  to 
make  her  happy — for  'tis  only  in  makin'  others  happy  that  we 
git  happy  ourselves,  hey  ?  Now  I  hev  no  wife  to  devote  myself 
to  my  han's  are  empty.  I  go  'bout  lookin'  everyways  fur  Sun- 
day." 

"  Oh,  but  I'm  sure  you've  never  got  a  minute  to  spare." 

"  You  may  depend,"  said  the  deacon,  proudly.  "  If  I  ain't 
'tarnally  busy  what  with  the  tannery  an'  the  grist-mill  an'  the 
farm  an'  the  local  mail,  it's  a  pity.  I  don't  believe  in  neglectin' 
dooty  because  your  heart's  bustin'  within."  He  spat  sorrow- 
fully under  the  stove.  "  My  motto  is,  *  Take  kear  o'  the  min- 
utes, and  the  holidays  '11  take  kear  o'  themselves.'  A  man  hes 
no  time  to  waste  in  this  oncivilized  Province,  where  stinkin'  Ind- 
ians, that  never  cleared  an  acre  in  their  lazy  lives,  hev  the  right 
to  encamp  on  a  man's  land,  an'  cut  down  his  best  firs  an'  ashes 
fur  their  butter-butts  and  baskets,  and  then  hev  the  imperence 
to  want  to  swop  the  identical  same  for  your  terbacco.  It's 


47 

thievin',  I  allus  thinks;  right-down  breakin'  o'  the  Command- 
ments, hey  ?" 

"  Well,  what  kin  you  expec'  from  Papists  ?"  replied  Mrs. 
Strang.  "  Why,  fur  sixpence  the  holy  fathers  forgive  'em  all 
their  sins." 

"  'Tain't  often  they've  got  sixpence,  hey  ?  When  'lection-day 
comes  round  agen  I  won't  vote  fur  no  candidate  that  don't 
promise  to  coop  all  them  greasy  Micmacs  up  in  a  reservation, 
same  es  they  do  to  Newfoundland.  They're  not  fit  to  mix  with 
hard-workin'  Christian  folk.  Them  thar  kids  o'  yourn,  now,  I 
hope  they're  proper  industrious.  A  child  kin*t  begin  too  airly 
to  larn  field-work,  hey  ?" 

"  Ah,  they're  the  best  children  in  the  world,"  said  Mrs.  Strang. 
"  They'll  do  anythin'  an'  eat  anythin'  e'en  a'most,  an'  never  a 
crost  word  ;  thet's  a  fact." 

The  deacon  suppressed  a  smile  of  self-gratulation.  Labor 
was  scarcer  than  ever  that  year,  and  in  his  idea  of  marrying 
Harriet  Strang,  which  he  was  now  cautiously  about  to  broach, 
the  possibility  of  securing  the  gratuitous  services  of  the  elder 
children  counted  not  a  little,  enhancing  the  beauty  of  his  pro- 
spective bride.  He  replied,  feelingly  : 

"  I'm  everlastin'  glad  to  hear  it,  Mrs.  Strang,  for  I  know  you 
kin't  afford  t'  employ  outside  labor.  They're  goin'  to  arx  three 
shillin's  a  day  this  summer,  the  blood-suckers." 

"  The  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire,"  quoted  Mrs.  Strang. 

"  Yes ;  but  he  allus  wants  to  be  highered,  hey  ?  A  seasonable 
joke  ain't  bad  in  its  right  place,  I  allus  thinks.  You  needn't 
allus  be  pullin'  a  long  face.  Thet  Matt  of  yourn,  now,  I've  seen 
him  with  a  face  like  ole  Jupe's  fiddle,  and  walkin'  along  es  slow 
es  a  bark-mill  turns  a'most." 

Mrs.  Strang  sighed. 

"  Ah,  you're  a  good  woman,  Mrs.  Strang.  There's  no  call  to 
blush,  fur  it's  true.  D'ye  think  Deacon  Hailey  hesn't  got  eyes 
for  what's  under  his  nose  ?  The  way  you're  bringing  up  them 
thar  kids  is  a  credit  to  the  Province.  I  only  hopes  they'll  be 
proper  thankful  fur  it  when  they're  growed  up.  It  makes  my 
heart  bleed  a'most,  I  do  declare.  Many  a  time  I've  said  to  my- 
self, l  Deacon  Hailey,  'tis  your  dooty  to  do  somethin'  fur  them 


48  THE    MASTER 

thar  orphans.'  Many  a  time  I've  thought  I'd  take  the  elder  ones 
off  your  han's.  There's  plenty  o'  room  in  the  ole  farm — 'twere 
built  for  children,  but  there's  on'y  Ruth  left.  An'  she  isn't  my 
own,  though  when  you  see  a  gal  around  from  infancy  you  for- 
gits  you  ain't  the  father,  hey  ?  What  a  pity  poor  Sophia's  two 
boys  were  as  delicate  as  herself." 

"  Sophia  ?"  murmured  Mrs.  Strang,  interrogatively. 

"Thet  was  my  fust  wife  afore  you  came  to  these  parts.  She 
died  young,  poor  critter.  Never  shall  I  forgit  her.  Ah,  there's 
nothin'  like  fust  love,  I  allus  thinks.  If  I  hedn't  wanted  to  hev 
children  to  work  fur,  I  should  never  ha'  married  agen.  But  it's 
a  selfish  business,  workin'  for  one's  own  han',  I  allus  thinks, 
knowin'  thet  when  you  die  all  you've  sweated  fur  '11  go  to 
strangers.  An'  now  thet  I've  on'y  got  one  soul  dependent  on 
me,  I  feels  teetotally  onswoggled.  What  do  you  say  ?  s'pose  I 
relieve  you  of  Matt — dooty  don't  end  with  passin'the  bag  round 
in  church,  hey? — it's  on  this  airth  that  we're  called  upon  to 
sacrifice  ourselves — or  better  still — s'pose  I  take  Harriet  off 
your  han's  ?" 

Mrs.  Strang  answered,  hesitatingly :  "  It  is  rael  kind  o'  you, 
deacon.  But,  of  course,  Harriet  couldn't  live  here  with  you." 

"  Hey  ?     Why  not  ?" 

"She's  too  ole." 

"An'  how  ole  might  she  be?" 

"  Gittin'  on  for  seventeen." 

"  I  guess  thet's  not  too  ole  for  me,"  he  said,  with  a  guffaw. 

Mrs.  Strang  paused,  startled.  The  idea  took  away  her  breath. 
The  deacon  smiled  on.  In  the  embarrassing  silence  the  tinkle 
of  Ruth's  harpsichord  sounded  like  an  orchestra. 

«  You — would — raelly — like  my  Harriet  ?"  Mrs.  Strang  said, 
at  last. 

"  You  may  depend — I've  thought  a  good  deal  of  her,  a  brisk 
an'  handy  young  critter  with  no  boardin'-school  nonsense  'bout 
her."  He  worked  his  quid  carefully  into  the  other  cheek,  com- 
placently enjoying  Mrs.  Strang's  overwhelmed  condition,  pre- 
sumably due  to  his  condescension.  "  Of  course  there's  heaps  of 
han'sum  gals  every  ways,  but  booty  is. only  skin-deep,  I  allus 
thinks.  She's  very  young,  too,  but  thet's  rather  in  her  favor. 


49 

You  can  eddicate  'em  if  you  take  'em  young.  Train  up  a  child, 
hey  ?" 

"  But  I'm  afeared  Harriet  wouldn't  give  up  Abner  Preep," 
said  Mrs.  Strang,  slowly.  "  She's  the  most  obstinate  gal,  thet's 
a  fact." 

"  Hey  ?     She  walks  out  with  Abner  Preep  ?" 

"  No — not  thet !  Pve  sot  my  face  agin  thet.  But  I  know  she 
wouldn't  give  him  up,  thet's  sartin."  tt 

Ruth's  harpsichord  again  possessed  the  silence,  trilling  forth 
"  Doxology "  with  an  unwarranted  presto  movement.  Mrs. 
Strang  went  on :  "  The  time  o'  your  last  muddin'  frolic  she 
danced  with  him  all  night  e'en  a'most  and  druv  off  home  in  his 
sleigh,  an'  there  ain't  a  quiltin'  party  or  a  candy-pullin'  or  an 
infare  but  she  contrives  to  meet  him." 

"  Scendalous  !"  exclaimed  the  deacon. 

"  I  don't  see  nothin'  scendalous !"  replied  Mrs.  Strang,  indig- 
nantly. "The  young  man  wants  to  marry  her  genume.  'Pears 
to  me  your  darter  is  more  scendalous  a'most,  playin'  hymns  as  if 
they  were  hornpipes.  I  didn't  arx  my  folks  if  I  might  meet  my 
poor  Davie  ;  we  went  to  dances  and  shows  together,  and  me  a 
Baptist,  God  forgive  me  !  And  Harriet's  jest  like  that  —  the 
hussy — she  takes  arter  her  mother." 

"  But  if  you  were  to  talk  to  her !"  urged  the  deacon. 

Mrs.  Strang  shook  her  head. 

"  She'd  stab  herself  sooner." 

"  Stab  herself  sooner'n  give  up  Abner  Preep !" 

"Sooner'n  marry  any  one  else." 

The  deacon  paused  to  cut  himself  a  wedge  of  tobacco  imper- 
turbably.  There  was  no  trace  of  his  disappointment  visible ; 
with  characteristic  promptitude  he  was  ready  for  the  next  best 
thing. 

"  Well,  who  wants  her  to  marry  anybody  else  ?"  he  askea, 
raising  his  eyebrows.  "  You  don't,  do  you  ?" 

"  N-n-o,"  gasped  Mrs.  Strang,  purpling. 

"  Thet's  right.  Give  her  her  head  a  bit.  It  don't  do  to  tie  a 
grown-up  gal  to  her  mammy's  apron-strings.  You  may  take  a 
horse  to  the  water,  but  you  kin't  make  her  drink,  hey?  No,  no, 
don't  you  worry  Harriet  with  forcin'  husbands  on  her." 


50  THE    MASTER 

"I — I  —  kinder — thought  —  "  gasped  Mrs.  Strang,  looking 
handsomer  than  ever  in  the  rosy  glow  of  confusion. 

"  You  kinder  thought — "  echoed  Old  Hey,  spitting  accu- 
rately under  the  stove. 

"  Thet  you  wanted  Harriet — " 

"  Thet's  so.  I  guessed  she  could  live  here  more  comfortable 
than  to  home.  I  don't  ask  no  reward ;  *  the  widder  and  the 
orphan/  as  Scripter  says — hey  ?" 

"  You  didn't  mean  marriage  ?" 

"Hey?"  shouted  the  deacon.  "Marriage?  Me?  Well,  I 
swow  !  Me,  whose  Susan  hes  only  been  dead  five  months  !  A 
proper  thing  to  suspec'  me  of !  Why,  all  the  neighbors  'ud 
be  sayin',  *  Susan  is  hardly  cold  in  her  grave  afore  he's  thinkin' 
of  another.' " 

"  I  beg  your  pardin,"  said  the  abashed  woman. 

"  An'  well  you  may,  I  do  declare  !  Five  months  arter  the 
funeral,  indeed !  Why,  ten  months  at  least  must  elapse  !  But 
you  teetotally  mistook  my  meanin',  Mrs.  Strang ;  it's  a  woman 
/'d  be  wantin'  —  a  woman  with  a  heart  an'  a  soul,  not  an  un- 
broken filly.  All  I  was  a-thinkin'  of  was,  Could  thet  thar  Abner 
Preep  clothe  and  feed  your  darter  ?  But  I  ain't  the  man  to  bear 
malice ;  and  till  you  kin  feel  you  kin  trust  her  to  him  or  some 
other  man,  my  house  is  open  to  her.  I  don't  draw  back  my 
offer,  and  when  I  made  it  I  was  quite  aware  you  would  hev  to 
be  on  the  spot,  too,  to  look  arter  her — hey  ?" 

«  Me  ?" 

"  Well,  you're  not  too  ole,  anyways."  And  the  deacon  smiled 
again.  "A'ready  you're  here  all  day  e'en  a'most."  Here  he 
half  knelt  down  to  attend  to  the  stove,  which  was  smoking  very 
slightly.  "  It  wouldn't  be  much  of  a  change  to  sleep  here, 
hey?" 

"  Oh,  but  you're  forgittin'  the  other  children,  deacon." 

"  Deacon  Hailey  ain't  the  man  to  forgit  anythin',  I  guess,"  he 
said,  over  his  shoulder.  "  Afore  he  talks  he  thinks.  He  puts 
everythin'  in  the  tan-pit  an'  lets  it  soak,  hey  ?  Is  it  likely  I'd 
take  you  over  here  an'  leave  the  little  uns  motherless  ?  I  never 
did  like  this  kind  of  stove."  He  fidgeted  impatiently  with  the 
mechanism  at  the  back,  making  the  iron  rattle. 


"  MAN    PROPOSES  ''  51 

"  I — I — don't — understand,"  faltered  Mrs.  Strang,  her  heart 
beginning  to  beat  painfully. 

"  How  you  do  go  on  ter-day,  Mrs.  Strang !  When  I  ain't 
talkin'  o'  marriage  you  jump  at  it,  and  when  I  am  you  hang 
back  like  a  mare  afore  a  six-foot  dyke.  Ah !  thet's  better," 
and  he  adjusted  the  damper  noisily,  with  a  great  sigh  of  sat- 
isfaction. 

"  You  want  to  marry  me  £"  gasped  Mrs.  Strang.  The  dark, 
handsome  features  flushed  yet  deeper ;  her  bosom  heaved. 

"  You've  struck  it !  I  do  want  ter,  thet's  plain  !"  He  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  threw  his  head  back  and  his  chest  forward.  "You'll 
allus  find  me  straightforward,  Mrs.  Strang.  I  don't  beat  about 
the  bush,  hey  If  But  I  shouldn't  hev  spoke  so  prematoor  if  you 
hedn't  druv  me  to  it  by  your  mistake  'bout  Harriet.  Es  if  I 
could  marry  a  giddy  young  gal  with  her  head  full  o'  worldly 
thoughts !  Surely  you  must  hev  seen  how  happy  I've  been  to 
hev  you  here,  arnin'  money  to  pay  off  your  mortgage.  Not  that 
I'd  a-called  it  in  anyways  !  What's  thet  thar  little  sum  to  me  ? 
But  I  was  thinkin'  o'  your  f eelin's ;  how  onhappy  you  would  be 
to  owe  me  the  money.  And  then  thinkin'  how  to  do  some- 
thin'  for  your  children,  I  saw  it  couldn't  be  done  without  takin' 
you  into  account.  A  mother  clings  to  her  children.  Nater  is 
nater,  I  allus  thinks.  And  the  more  I  took  you  into  account, 
the  more  you  figured  up.  There's  a  great  mother,  I  thinks; 
there's  a  God-fearin'  woman.  An'  a  God-fearin'  woman  is  a 
crown  to  her  husban',  hey  ?  If  ever  I  do  bring  myself  to  marry 
agen,  thet's  the  woman  for  my  money,  I  vow !  When  I  say 
money,  it's  on'y  speakin'  in  parables  like,  'cause  I'm  not  thet 
sort  o'  man.  There  air  men  as  'ud  come  to  you  an'  say,  <  See 
here,  Mrs.  Strang,  I've  got  fifty  acres  of  fust-class  interval-land, 
an'  a  thousand  acres  of  upland  and  forest-land,  an'  thirty  head  o' 
cattle,  an'  a  hundred  sheep  a'most,  an'  a  tannery  thet,  with  the 
shoemaker's  shop  attached,  brings  me  in  two  hundred  pound  a 
year,  an'  a  grist-mill,  an'  I  carry  the  local  mail,  an'  I've  shares 
and  mortgages  thet  would  make  you  open  your  eyes,  I  tell  you, 
an'  I'm  free  from  encumbrances  e'en  a'most,  whereas  you've  got 
half  a  dozen.'  But  what  does  Deacon  Hailey  say  ?  He  says, 
jest  put  all  thet  outer  your  mind,  Mrs.  Strang,  an'  think  on'y 


52  <j       THE    MASTER 

o'  the  man — think  o'  the  man,  with  no  one  to  devote  him- 
self to." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  she  did  not  withdraw  it.  Emotion 
made  her  breathing  difficult.  In  the  new  light  in  which  he  ap- 
peared to  her  she  saw  that  he  was  still  a  proper  man — straight 
and  tall  and  sturdy  and  bright  of  eye,  despite  his  grizzled  beard 
and  hair. 

"  An'  if  you  kin't  give  him  devotion  in  return,  jest  you  say 
so  plump ;  take  a  lesson  from  his  straightforwardness,  hey  ? 
Don't  you  think  o'  your  mortgage,  or  his  money-bags,  'cause 
money  ain't  happiness,  hey  ?  An'  don't  you  go  sacrificin'  your- 
self for  your  children,  thinkin'  o'  poor  little  Billy's  future,  'cause 
I  don't  hold  with  folks  sacrificin'  themselves  wholesale  ;  self- 
preservation  is  the  fust  law  of  nater,  hey  ?  an'  it  wouldn't  be  fair 
to  me.  All  ye  hev  to  arx  yourself  is  jest  this :  Kin  you  make 
Deacon  Hailey  happy  in  his  declinin'  years  ?"  He  drew  himself 
up  to  his  full  height  without  letting  go  her  hand,  and  his  eyes 
looked  into  hers.  "  Yes,  I  say  declinin'  years — there's  no  de- 
ception, the  'taters  air  all  up  to  sample.  How  ole  might  you 
think  me  ?" 

"  Fifty,"  she  said,  politely. 

"  Nearer  sixty  !"  he  replied,  triumphantly.  "  But  I  hev  my 
cold  bath  every  mornin' — I'm  none  o'  your  shaky  boards  that  fly 
into  etarnal  bits  at  the  fust  clout,  hey  ?" 

"  But  you  hev  been  married  twice,"  she  faltered. 

"  So  will  you  be — ;when  you  marry  me,  hey  ?"  And  the  deacon 
lifted  her  chin  playfully.  "  We're  neither  on  us  rough  timber — 
we've  both  hed  our  wainy  edges  knocked  off,  hey  ?  My  father 
hed  three  wives — and  he's  still  hale  and  hearty — a  widower  o' 
ninety.  Like  father  like  son,  hey  ?  He's  a  deacon,  too,  down 
to  Digby." 

As  Deacon  Hailey  spoke  of  his  father  he  grew  middle-aged 
to  Mrs.  Strang's  vision.  But  she  found  nothing  to  reply,  and 
her  thoughts  drifted  off  inconsequently  on  the  rivulet  of  sacred 
music. 

"  But  Ruth  won't  like  it,"  she  murmured  at  last. 

"  Hey  ?  What's  Ruth  got  to  say  in  the  matter  ?  I  guess 
Ruth  knows  her  fifth  commandment,  an'  so  do  I.  My  father  is 


53 

the  on'y  person  whose  blessin'  I  shall  arx  on  ray  'spousals.  I 
allus  make  a  pint  o'  thet,  you  may  depend." 

The  pathetic  picture  of  Deacon  Hailey  beseeching  his  father's 
blessing  knocked  off  ten  years  more  from  his  age,  and  it  was  a 
young  and  ardent  wooer  whose  grasp  tightened  momently  on 
Mrs.  Strang's  hand. 

"  We  might  go  to  see  him  together,"  he  said.  "  It's  an  ever- 
lastin'  purty  place,  Digby." 

"  I'd  rayther  see  Halifax,"  said  Mrs.  Strang,  weakly.  In  the 
whirl  of  her  thoughts  Ruth's  tinkling  tune  seemed  the  only 
steady  thing  in  the  universe.  Oh,  if  Ruth  would  only  play  some- 
thing bearing  on  the  situation,  so  that  Heaven  might  guide  her 
in  this  sudden  and  fateful  crisis  ! 

"  Halifax,  too,  some  day,"  said  the  deacon,  encouragingly, 
laying  his  disengaged  hand  caressingly  on  her  hair.  "We'll 
go  to  the  circus  together." 

She  withdrew  herself  spasmodically  from  his  touch. 

"  Don't  ask  me  !"  she  cried  ;  "  you're  Presbyterian  !" 

"  Well,  and  what  was  your  last  husban'  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me.  Harriet  and  Matt  air  ongodly  'nough  as  it 
is ;  they've  neither  on  'em  found  salvation." 

"  Well,  I  won't  interfere  with  your  doctrines,  you  bet.  Free- 
dom o'  conscience,  I  allus  thinks.  We  all  sarve  the  same  Maker, 
hey  ?  I  guess  you're  purty  reg'lar  at  our  church,  though." 

"  Thet's  God's  punishment  on  me  for  runnin'  away  from 
Halifax,  where  I  hed  a  church  of  my  own  to  go  to,  but  he  never 
cared  nuthin'  'bout  the  'sential  rite,  my  poor  Davie.  I  ought 
to  ha'  been  expelled  from  membership  there  and  then,  thet's 
a  fact,  but  the  elders  were  merciful.  Sometimes  I  think  'tis 
the  old  French  nater  that  makes  me  backslide ;  my  grandfather 
came  from  Paris  in  1783,  at  the  end  o'  the  Amur'can  war,  and 
settled  to  St.  Margaret's  Bay ;  but  then  he  married  into  a  god- 
f earin'  German  family  that  emigrated  there  the  same  time  a'most, 
and  that  ought  to  ha'  made  things  straight  agen." 

Mrs.  Strang  talked  on,  glad  to  find  herself  floating  away  from 
the  issue.  But  the  deacon  caught  her  by  the  hand  again  and 
hauled  her  back. 

"  There  won't  be  no  backslidin'  in  Deacon  Hailey 's  house- 


54  THE    MASTER 

hold,  you  may  depend,"  he  said.  "  When  a  woman  hes  a  godly 
stay -to-home  husband,  Satan  takes  to  his  heels.  It's  widders 
and  grass-widders  es  he  flirts  with,  hey  ?" 

Mrs.  Strang  colored  up  again,  and  prayed  silently  for  help 
from  the  harpsichord. 

"  I  kin't  give  you  an  answer  yet,"  she  said,  feebly. 

Old  Hey  slowly  squirted  a  stream  of  tobacco-juice  into  the 
air  as  imperturbably  as  a  stone  fountain  figure. 

"  I  don't  want  your  answer  yet.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  couldn't 
dream  of  marryin'  agen  for  ages  ?  It  don't  matter  your  bein'  in 
a  hurry  'cause  your  pardner  left  you  three  years  back,  but  I  hev 
the  morals  o'  the  township  to  consider ;  it's  our  dooty  in  life 
to  set  a  good  example  to  the  weaker  brethren,  I  allus  thinks. 
Eight  months  at  least  must  elapse  !  I  on'y  spoke  out  now  'cause 
o'  your  onfortunate  mistake  'bout  Harriet,  and  all  I  want  is  to 
be  sure  thet  when  I  do  come  to  ask  you  in  proper  form  and  in 
doo  course,  you  won't  say  '  no.'  " 

Mrs.  Strang  remained  silent.  And  the  harpsichord  was  silent 
too.  Even  that  had  deserted  her;  its  sound  might  have  been 
tortured  into  some  applicability,  but  its  silence  could  be  con- 
strued into  nothing,  unless  it  was  taken  to  give  consent.  And 
then  all  at  once  Ruth  struck  a  new  chord.  Mrs.  Strang  strained 
her  ears  to  catch  the  first  bar.  The  deacon  could  not  under- 
stand the  sudden  gleam  that  lit  up  her  face  when  the  instru- 
ment broke  into  the  favorite  Nova  Scotian  song,  "  The  Vacant 
Chair  !"  At  last  Heaven  had  sent  her  a  sign ;  there  was  a  va- 
cant chair,  and  it  was  her  mission  to  fill  it. 

"  Well,  is  thet  a  bargen  ?"  asked  the  deacon,  losing  patience. 

"  If  you're  sure  you  want  me,"  breathed  Mrs.  Strang. 

In  a  flash  the  deacon's  arms  were  round  her  and  his  lips  on 
hers.  She  extricated  herself  almost  as  quickly  by  main  force. 

"  'Twarn't  to  be  yet,"  she  cried,  indignantly. 

"  Of  course  not,  Mrs.  Strang,"  retorted  the  deacon,  severely. 
"  On'y  you  asked  if  I  was  sure,  and  I  allowed  I'd  show  you 
Deacon  Hailey  was  genuine.  It's  sorter  sealin'  the  bargen,  hey  ? 
I  couldn't  let  you  depart  in  onsartinty." 

"  Well,  behave  yourself  in  future,"  she  said,  only  half  molli- 
fied, as  she  readjusted  her  hair,  "  or  I'll  throw  up  the  position. 


55 

I  guess  I'll  be  off  now,"  and  she  took  bonnet  and  mantle  from 
a  peg. 

"  Not  in  anger,  Mrs.  Strang,  I  hope.  '  Let  all  bitterness  be 
put  away  from  you,'  hey  ?  Thet  thar  han'sum  face  o'  yourn 
warn't  meant  for  thunder-clouds." 

He  hastened  to  help  her  on  with  her  things,  and  in  the  proc- 
ess effected  a  reconciliation  by  speaking  of  new  ones — "  store 
clothes  " — that  would  set  off  her  beauty  better.  Mrs.  Strang 
walked  airily  through  the  slushy  forest  road  as  on  a  primrose 
path.  She  was  excited  and  radiant — her  troubles  were  rolled 
away,  and  her  own  and  her  children's  future  assured,  and  Heaven 
itself  had  nodded  assent.  Her  lonely  heart  was  to  know  a  lov- 
er's tenderness  again ;  it  was  swelling  now  with  gratitude  that 
might  well  blossom  into  affection.  How  gay  her  home  should 
be  with  festive  companies,  to  be  balanced  by  mammoth  revival- 
ist meetings  !  She  would  be  the  centre  of  hospitality  and  piety 
for  the  country-side. 

But  as  she  neared  the  house— which  seemed  to  have  run  half- 
way to  meet  her — the  primroses  changed  back  to  slush,  and  her 
face  to  its  habitual  gloom. 

Matt  and  Harriet  were  alone  in  the  kitchen.  The  girl  was 
crocheting,  the  boy  daubing  flowers  on  a  board,  which  he  slid 
under  the  table  as  he  heard  his  mother  stamping  off  the  wet 
snow  in  the  passage.  Mrs.  Strang  detected  the  board,  but  she 
contented  herself  by  ordering  him  to  go  to  bed.  Then  she 
warmed  her  frozen  hands  at  the  stove  and  relapsed  into  silence. 
Twenty  times  she  opened  her  lips  to  address  Harriet,  but  the 
words  held  back.  She  grew  angry  with  her  daughter  at  last. 

"  You're  plaguy  onsociable  to  -  night,  Harriet,"  she  said, 
sharply. 

"  Me,  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  you.     You  might  tell  a  body  the  news." 

"  There's  no  news  to  Cobequid.  Ole  Jupe's  come  back  from 
fiddlin'  at  a  colored  ball  way  down  Hants  County.  He  says 
two  darkies  hed  a  fight  over  the  belle." 

Harriet  ceased,  and  her  needles  clicked  on  irritatingly.  Mrs. 
Strang  burst  forth  : 

"  You  might  ask  a  body  the  news." 


56  THE    MASTER 

"  What  news  can  there  be  down  to  Ole  Key's  ?"  Harriet 
snapped. 

"  Deacon  Hailey,"  began  Mrs.  Strang,  curiously  stung  by  the 
familiar  nickname,  and  pricked  by  resentment  into  courage ; 
then  her  voice  failed,  and  she  concluded,  almost  in  a  murmur, 
"  is  a-thinkin'  of  marryin'  agen." 

"  The  ole  wretch !"  ejaculated  Harriet,  calmly  continuing  her 
crocheting. 

"  He's  not  so  ole  !"  expostulated  Mrs.  Strang,  meekly. 

"  He's  sixty  !  Why,  you  might  as  well  think  o'  marryin' !  The 
idea  !" 

"  Oh,  but  I'm  on'y  thirty -five,  Harriet !" 

"  Well,  it's  jest  es  ole.     Love-makin'  is  on'y  for  the  young." 

"  Thet's  jest  where  you're  wrong,  Harriet.  Youth  is  enjoy- 
ment enough  of  itself.  It  is  the  ole  folks  that  hev  nothin'  else 
to  look  fur  thet  want  to  be  loved.  It's  the  on'y  thing  thet  keeps 
'em  from  throwin'  up  the  position,  an'  they  marry  sensibly. 
Young  folks  oughter  wait  till  they've  got  sense." 

"  The  longer  they  wait  the  less  sense  they've  got !  If  two 
people  love  each  other  they  ought  to  marry  at  once,  thet's  a 
fact." 

"  Yes ;  if  they're  two  ole  sensible  people." 

"  I'm  tar'd  o'  this  talk  o'  waitin',"  said  Harriet,  petulantly. 
"  How  ole  were  you  when  you  ran  away  with  father  ?" 

"  You  ondecent  minx  !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Strang. 

"  You  weren't  no  older  nor  me,"  persisted  Harriet,  unabashed. 

"  Yes,  but  I  lived  in  a  great  city.  I  saw  young  men  of  all 
shapes  and  sizes.  I  picked  from  the  tree — I  didn't  take  the 
fust  thet  fell  at  my  feet ;  an'  how  you  can  look  at  an  onsightly 
critter  like  Abner  Preep !  I'd  rayther  see  you  matched  with 
Roger  Besant,  for  though  his  left  shoulder  is  half  an  inch  higher 
than  the  right  a'most,  from  carrying  heavy  timbers  in  the  ship- 
yard, he  don't  bend  his  legs  like  a  couple  o'  broken  candles." 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  o'  Roger  Besant — he's  a  toad.  It's  Abner 
I  love.  I  don't  kear  'bout  his  legs;  his  heart's  in  the  right 
place  !" 

"  You  mean  he's  give  it  to  you  !" 

"  I  reckon  so  !" 


57 

"  An'  you  will  fly  in  my  face  ?" 

"  I  must,"  said  Harriet,  sullenly,  "  if  you  don't  take  your 
face  out  o'  the  way." 

"  You  imperent  slummix  !  An'  you  will  leave  your  mother 
alone  ?" 

"  Es  soon  es  Abner  kin  build  a  house." 

"  Then  if  you  marry  Abner  Preep,"  said  Mrs.  Strang,  rising 
in  all  the  majesty  of  righteous  menace,  "  I'll  marry  Deacon 
Hailey." 

"  What !"    Harriet  also  rose,  white  and  scared. 

"  You  may  depend !  I'm  desprit !  You  kin  try  me  too  far. 
You  know  the  wust,  now.  I  will  take  my  face  out  o'  the  way, 
you  onnatural  darter !  I  will  take  it  to  one  thet  'preciates  it." 

There  was  a  painful  silence.  Mrs.  Strang  eyed  her  daughter 
nervously.  Harriet  seemed  dazed. 

"  You'd  marry  Ole  Hey  ?"  she  breathed  at  last. 

"  You'd  marry  young  Preep  !"  retorted  the  mother 

"  I'm  a  young  gal !" 

"  An'  I'm  an  ole  woman  !  Two  ole  folks  is  es  good  a  match 
es  two  young  uns." 

"  Ah,  but  you  don't  allow  Abner  and  me  is  a  good  match  !" 
said  Harriet,  eagerly. 

"  If  you  allow  the  deacon  and  me  is." 

Their  eyes  met. 

"  You  see,  there's  the  young  uns  to  think  on,"  said  Mrs. 
Strang.  "  If  you  were  to  go  away,  how  could  I  get  along  with 
the  mortgage  ?" 

"  Thet's  true,"  said  Harriet,  relenting  a  little. 

"  An'  if  we  were  all  to  go  to  the  farm,  thcre'd  be  the  house 
for  you  and  Abner." 

Harriet  flushed  rosily. 

"An'  mebbe  the  deacon  wouldn't  be  hard  with  the  mort- 
gage !" 

"  Mebbe,"  murmured  Harriet.  Her  heart  went  pit-a-pat.  But 
suddenly  her  face  clouded. 

"  But  what  will  Matt  say  ?"  she  half  whispered,  as  if  afraid 
he  might  be  within  hearing.  "  I  guess  he'll  be  riled  some." 

"  Oh,  he'll  be  all  right  if  you  kinder  break  the  news  to  him 


58  THE    MASTER 

f 

an'  explain  the  thing  proper.  I  reckon  he  won't  take  to  the 
deacon  at  first." 

"  The  deacon  !    It's  Abner  I'm  thinkin'  on  !" 

"  Abner  !  What  does  it  matter  what  he  thinks  of  Abner  ? 
'Tain't  es  if  Matt  was  older  nor  you.  He's  got  nothin'  to  say  in 
the  matter,  I  do  allow." 

"  But  he  calls  him  Bully  Preep,  and  says  he  used  to  wallop 
him  at  McTavit's." 

"And  didn't  he  desarve  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Strang,  indignantly. 

"  He  says  he  won't  hev  him  foolin'  aroun'.  He  calls  him  a 
mean  skunk." 

"  And  who's  Matt,  I  should  like  to  know,  to  pass  his  opinions 
on  his  elders  an'  betters  ?  You  jest  take  no  notice  of  his  'tar- 
nation imperence  and  he'll  dry  up.  It's  hevin'  a  new  father 
he'll  be  peaked  about.  Thet's  why  you'd  better  do  the  talkin' 
to  Matt !" 

"  Then  you'll  hev  to  tell  him  'bout  Abner,"  bargained  Har- 
riet. 

But  neither  had  the  courage. 


CHAPTER  V 

PEGGY    THE   WATER-DRINKER 


THE  old  year  had  rolled  off  into  the  shadows,  and  the  new 
had  spun  round  as  far  as  April.  Spring  came  to  earth  for  a 
few  hours  a  day,  and  behind  her  Winter,  whistling,  clanged  his 
iron  gates,  refreezing  the  morass  to  which  she  had  reduced  the 
roads.  Even  at  noon  there  was  no  genial  current  in  the  air,  un- 
less you  took  the  sheltered  side  of  hills  and  trees,  and  found 
Spring  nestling  shyly  in  windless  coverts,  though  many  a  se'n- 
night  had  still  to  pass  ere,  upon  some  more  shaded  hummock, 
the  harbinger  Mayflower  would  timidly  put  forth  a  white  bud 
laden  with  delicate  odor.  Everywhere,  down  the  hills  and  along 
the  tracks,  in  every  rut  and  hollow,  the  sun  saw  a  thousand 
dancing  rivulets  gleam  and  run,  and  great  freshets  stir  up  the 


PEGGY    THE    WATER-DRINKER  59 

• 

sullen,  ice-laden  rivers  to  sweep  away  dams  and  mills,  but  the 
moon  looked  down  on  a  white  country  demurely  asleep. 

Early  in  the  month,  Matt  having  previously  said  farewell  in 
earnest  to  McTavit's  school-room,  left  home  for  the  spring  sugar- 
ing. Billy,  alas !  could  not  accompany  him.  as  of  yore,  so  Sprat 
was  left  behind,  too,  by  way  of  compensation  to  Billy.  For 
company  and  co-operation,  Matt  took  with  him  an  Indian  boy 
whose  Christian  name  (for  he  was  a  Roman  Catholic)  was 
Tommy. 

Matt  had  picked  up  Tommy  in  the  proximate  woods,  where 
the  noble  savage  ran  wild  in  cast-off  Christian  clothes.  Tommy 
belonged  to  a  tribe  that  had  recently  pitched  its  wigwams  in 
the  backlands,  a  mile  from  Cobequid  Village.  To  Mrs.  Strang, 
who  despatched  the  sugaring  expedition  and  provisioned  it,  he 
was  merely  "  a  filthy  brat  who  grinned  like  a  Chessy  cat,"  but 
to  Matt  he  incarnated  the  poetry  of  the  primitive,  and  even 
spoke  it.  Not  that  Matt  had  more  than  a  few  words  of  Algon- 
quinese,  but  Tommy  broke  English  quite  unhesitatingly;  and  his 
remarks,  if  terse  and  infrequent,  were  flowery  and  sometimes 
intelligible.  They  generally  ran  backward,  after  the  manner 
of  Micmac,  which  is  as  highly  inflected  as  Greek  or  Hebrew. 
For  the  admiring  Matt  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  romance 
about  the  red  man  which  extended  even  to  the  red  boy,  and  he 
had  set  himself  to  win  Tommy's  heart  in  exchange  for  tobacco, 
which  was  itself  obtained  by  another  piece  of  barter.  Tommy 
smoked  a  clay  pipe,  being  early  indurated  to  hardship,  after  the 
Spartan  custom  of  his  tribe.  There  were  sketches  of  Tommy, 
colored  like  the  Red  Sea  or  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  in  Matt's  secret 
gallery.  Tommy  was  easy  to  do,  owing  to  his  other  tribal  habit 
of  sitting  silent  for  hours  without  moving  a  muscle.  It  was  only 
rarely  that  Matt  could  extract  from  him  native  legends  about 
Glooscap,  the  national  hero,  and  Mundu,  the  devil. 

The  two  boys  set  out  together  for  a  rock-maple  district  five 
miles  off,  drawing  their  impedimenta  heaped  high  on  a  large 
sled.  They  were  fortified  for  a  three  weeks'  stay.  Mrs.  Strang 
had  baked  them  several  batches  of  bread,  and  with  unwonted 
enthusiasm  supplied  them  with  corn-meal  for  porridge,  and  tea 
and  sugar,  and  butter  and  molasses,  and  salt  pork  and  beef,  all 


60  THE    MASTER 

stowed  into  the  barrel  that  would  come  home  full  of  sugar. 
Their  kitchen  paraphernalia  embraced  a  teapot  and  a  teakettle, 
a  frying-pan  and  a  pot,  while  their  manufacturing  apparatus 
comprised  tin  pails,  Yankee  buckets,  dippers,  and  axes.  Guns, 
ammunition,  and  blankets  completed  their  equipment.  Matt's 
painting  materials  were  stowed  away  on  his  person  unobtru- 
sively. 

They  took  possession  of  a  disused  log -cabin,  formerly  the 
property  of  a  woodsman,  as  the  advertising  agent  would  have 
put  it,  had  he  penetrated  to  the  backwoods.  Possibly  under 
his  roseate  vision  it  might  have  expanded,  into  a  detached  villa 
without  basement,  or  a  bungalow  standing  in  its  own  grounds, 
but  a  non-professional  eye  would  have  seen  nothing  but  four 
walls  and  a  pitched  roof  with  a  great  square  hole  in  it  to  let  the 
light  in  and  the  smoke  out.  These  walls  were  built  of  unhewn 
logs  in  their  rough,  natural  bark.  The  floor  was  even  more 
primitive,  being  simply  the  soil.  It  was  necessary  to  thaw  it 
by  lighting  the  fire  on  it  before  the  stakes  could  be  driven  in 
to  support  the  cross-pieces  from  which  the  sugar-pot  depended. 

Then  the  boys  chopped  down  a  vast  store  of  hardwood  for 
fuel,  and  lanced  the  tall  maples,  catching  their  blood  in  birch- 
bark  troughs  through  pine  spills.  They  emptied  the  troughs 
into  pails,  and  carried  the  sap  to  their  cabin,  and  boiled  it  in 
the  big  pot,  and  cooled  it  again  to  sugar.  A  halcyon  fortnight 
passed,  full  of  work,  yet  leaving  Matt  leisure  for  daubing  boy- 
ish fancies  on  pieces  of  birch-bark  to  cover  withal  the  wooden 
walls  of  his  home,  which  the  aforesaid  advertiser  might  not  un- 
warrantably have  described  as  a  studio  with  a  novel  top-light  in 
a  quiet  neighborhood.  Possibly  Matt's  mural  decorations  would 
have  enhanced  the  description.  They  comprised  a  fantastic 
medley  of  angels  with  faces  more  or  less  like  Ruth  Hailey,  and 
devils  fashioned  more  or  less  after  the  similitude  of  Bully  Preejp, 
and  strange  composite  animals  more  or  less  like  nothing  on 
earth,  moving  amid  hills  and  ships  and  lurid  horizons.  One 
night  Matt  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  centre  of  the  hut  painting  a 
more  realistic  picture  and  meditating  a  weeding  of  his  gallery. 
There  had  been  no  sap  running  that  day,  a  sudden  return  of 
winter  had  congealed  it,  and  so  this  extra  artistic  output  during 


PEGGY    THE    WATER-DRINKER  61 

the  comparatively  idle  hours  had  almost  exhausted  his  hanging- 
space.  While  he  painted  he  gave  an  eye  to  the  seething  pot  in 
which  the  sap  must  change  to  molasses,  and  then  thicken  to  ma- 
ple syrup,  and  then  to  maple  wax  ere  it  was  ladled  into  the  birch- 
bark  dishes  and  set  to  cool  outside  the  hut.  A  piece  of  fat  pork 
hanging  from  a  hook  in  the  cross-piece  just  touched  the  surface 
of  the  sap  and  prevented  it  from  effervescing.  TJpmmy  was 
asleep  on  a  heap  of  fir  boughs  in  a  corner,  for  the  boys  took  it 
in  turn  to  watch  the  pot  and  replenish  the  fire.  The  soundness 
of  Tommy's  sleep  to-night  astonished  Matt,  for  usually  the  young 
Micmac  slept  the  sleep  of  the  vigilant,  a-quiver  at  the  slightest 
unwonted  sound.  Matt  did  not  know  that  his  ingenious  part- 
ner had  just  completed  the  distillation  of  a  crude  rum  from  a 
portion  of  sap  arrested  at  the  molasses  stage,  and  that  he  had 
imbibed  gloriously  thereof. 

Matt's  painting-stool  was  an  inverted  bucket.  He  wore  a  fur 
cap  with  pendent  earlaps  that  gave  him  an  elderly  appearance ; 
and  his  feet  were  cased  in  moccasins,  made  from  the  green  shank 
of  a  cow.  For  some  time  he  painted  steadily,  trying  to  repro- 
duce the  picturesque  interior  of  the  cabin  with  his  rude  home- 
made colors  and  brush.  The  air  was  warm  and  charged  with 
resinous  odors.  The  camp-fire  burned  brightly,  the  hardwood 
flaming  without  snapping  or  crackling,  with  only  the  soft  hiss- 
ing and  spurting  of  liberated  gases ;  the  fire  purred  as  if  enjoy- 
ing the  warmth.  The  yellow  billows  curled  round  the  bulging 
bottom  of  the  three  -  legged  pot,  and  sent  up  delicate  spirals  of 
blue  smoke,  tinged  below  with  flame,  to  mingle  with  the  white 
sappy  steam  that  froze  as  soon  as  it  got  outside  and  disentan- 
gled itself  from  the  wood  smoke  by  falling  as  hoar-frost.  At 
moments  when  #11  this  smoke  lifted  Matt  could  see  the  stars 
shining  on  him  through  the  hole  in  the  roof,  stainless  and  far 
away  in  a  deep  blue  patch  of  heaven.  Somehow  they  made  him 
dissatisfied  with  his  work ;  they  seemed  like  calm,  sovran  eyes 
watching  his  puny  efforts  to  reproduce,  with  his  pitiable  palette, 
the  manifold  hues  and  shades  of  the  simple  scene  around  him — 
the  greasy  copper  of  the  Indian  boy's  face,  glistening  against 
the  yellow  blanket  which  covered  him  and  the  olive -green 
boughs  on  which  he  lay ;  the  motley  firewood,  the  dull  brown 


62  THE    MASTER 

tones  of  the  spruce  brandies,  the  silver  of  birch,  the  yellow  of 
beech;  the  empty  birch -bark  troughs,  silver -white  outside  and 
dull  salmon  within,  touched  with  tints  of  light  gold  or  gray. 
Why,  there  was  a  whole  color-scheme  of  subdued  rich  tints  in 
the  moss  alone — the  dead  dry  moss  that  filled  up  the  uneven 
rifts  in  the  log  -  roof,  and  gleamed  with  a  mottle  of  green  and 
olive  and  pusset.  He  threw  down  his  brush  in  despair,  longing 
for  the  rich,  thick  paints  he  vaguely  imagined  his  uncle  in  Lon- 
don must  have — real  paints  that  did  not  fade  as  his  did,  despite 
the  gums  he  mixed  experimentally  with  them  —  pure  reds  and 
blues  and  greens  and  yellows,  capable  of  giving  real  skies  and 
real  grass  and  real  water,  and  of  being  mixed  into  every  shade 
of  color  the  heart  could  desire.  Then  he  slipped  out  through 
the  door,  shutting  it  quickly  to  prevent  the  hut  filling  with 
smoke.  The  ground  was  white  under  a  brilliant  moon,  with 
here  and  there  patches  of  silver  that  wellnigh  sparkled.  Over- 
head mystic  pallid-gold  rays  of  northern  light  palpitated  across 
the  clear  star-strewn  heaven.  The  trees  showed  more  sombre, 
the  birches  and  maples  bare  of  leafage,  the  spruces  and  hem- 
locks and  all  the  tangled  undergrowth  reduced  to  a  common 
gray  in  the  moonlight.  Here  and  there  a  brown  hummock 
stood  solemnly  with  bared  head.  And  from  all  this  sleeping 
woodland  rose  a  restless  breathing,  that  incessant  stir  of  a  vast 
alien,  self-sufficient  life,  the  rustle  of  creatures  living  and  mov- 
ing and  having  their  being  in  another  world  than  the  human,  in 
that  dim,  remote,  teeming  underworld  of  animal  life,  with  its 
keen  joys  and  transient  pains.  And  every  now  and  then  a  def- 
inite sound  disengaged  itself  from  the  immense  murmur :  a 
chickadee  chirped,  a  black-headed  snow-bird  twittered,  a  cat- 
owl  hooted,  a  rabbit  ran  from  the  underwood,  as  faintly  distin- 
guishable from  the  snow  in  his  white  winter  coat  as  he  had 
been  from  the  dead  leaves  over  which  he  pattered  in  autumn  in 
his  gray  homespun. 

Matt  stood  leaning  against  the  door,  absorbed  into  the  multi- 
farious night,  and  hardly  conscious  of  the  cold ;  then  he  went 
in,  thrilling  with  vague,  sweet  emotion,  and  vast  manful  resolu- 
tions that  cast  out  despair.  But  he  did  not  take  up  his  brush 
again.  He  sat  down  before  the  fire  in  dreamy  bliss ;  all  the 


PEGGY    THE    WATER-DRINKER  63 

asperities  of  his  existence  softened  by  its  leaping  light,  and 
even  that  dead  face  of  his  father  thawed  into  the  pleasant  mo- 
tions of  life.  The  past  shone  through  a  mellow,  rosy  mist,  and 
the  future  was  like  the  scarlet  sunrise  of  the  forest,  flaming 
from  splendor  to  splendor  —  a  future  of  artistic  achievement 
upon  which  Ruth  Hailey's  face  smiled  applause ;  a  future  of 
easy,  unsought  riches  which  banished  the  gloom  upon  his 
mother's. 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  caught  sight  of  Tommy's  clay 
pipe,  fallen  from  his  mouth  on  to  the  blanket ;  and  an  unf ore 
seen  desire  to  smoke  it  and  put  the  seal  on  this  hour  of  happi- 
ness invaded  the  white  boy's  breast.  He  rose  and  picked  it  up. 
It  was  full  of  charred  tobacco.  The  craving  to  light  it  and  taste 
its  mysterious  joys  grew  stronger.  His  mother  had  sternly  for- 
bidden him  to  smoke,  backing  up  her  prohibition  by  the  text  in 
Revelation — "And  he  opened  the  bottomless  pit,  and  there  arose 
a  smoke  out  of  the  pit,  as  the  smoke  of  a  great  furnace ;  and 
the  sun  and  air  were  darkened  by  reason  of  the  smoke  of  the 
pit."  But  now  he  remembered  he  had  left  school ;  he  was  a 
man.  He  put  the  stem  into  his  mouth  and  plucked  a  brand 
from  the  fire,  then  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute.  He  wondered 
if  any  instinct  warned  his  mother  of  what  he  was  doing,  and 
from  that  thought  it  was  an  easy  transition  to  wondering  what 
she  was  doing.  His  fancy  saw  her  still  running  backward  and 
forward,  working  that  great  buzzing  wheel  with  stern,  joyless 
face.  He  put  down  his  pipe. 

There  was  a  fresh  element  in  his  dreamy  bliss  as  he  resumed 
his  seat  before  the  fire,  a  sense  of  something  high  and  tranquil- 
lizing like  the  clear  stars,  yet  touching  the  spring  of  tears.  His 
head  drooped  in  the  drowsy  warmth,  he  surrendered  himself  to 
voluptuous  sadness,  and  the  outside  world  grew  faint  and 
fading. 

When  he  looked  up  again  his  heart  almost  ceased  to  beat. 
At  his  side  loomed  a  strange  female  figure,  her  head  covered 
with  a  drab  shawl  that  hid  her  face.  She  stood  in  great  snow- 
shoes  as  on  a  pair  of  pedestals,  and  the  log  walls  repeated  her 
form  in  contorted  shadow. 

The  gentle  purring  of  the  fire,  the  Indian  boy's  breathing, 


64  THE    MASTER 

sounded  painfully  in  the  weird  stillness.  From  without  came 
the  manifold  rustle  of  the  night. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  he  whispered. 

"  Give  me  a  glass  of  water,"  she  replied,  sweetly. 

"  I  hevVt  any  water,"  he  breathed. 

"  I  am  afire  with  thirst,"  she  cried.  "  Quench  me !  quench 
me !"  Her  shawl  slipped  back,  revealing  a  face  of  wild,  un- 
canny beauty  crowned  with  an  aureola  of  golden  hair.  But 
the  awesome  thrill  that  had  permeated  Matt's  being  passed 
into  one  of  aesthetic  pleasure  mingled  with  astonished  recog- 
nition. 

"  Why,  it's  Mad  Peggy  !"  he  murmured. 

"  Aye,  it's  the  Water-Drinker !"  assented  the  beautiful  visitor, 
in  soft,  musical  tones,  thereupon  crying  out,  "  Water,  water,  for 
God's  sake  !" 

"  I  hev'n't  any  water,  I  tell  you.  Not  till  I  git  some  from  the 
spring  in  the  mornin'.  Hev  some  sap  !" 

And  Matt,  starting  to  his  feet,  plunged  the  dipper  into  the 
barrel  of  raw  sap  that  stood  on  the  floor.  Mad  Peggy  seized  it 
greedily  and  drained  the  great  ladle  to  the  dregs.  Then  she 
filled  it  again  with  delicious  fluid,  and  then  again,  and  yet  again, 
leaving  Matt  aghast  at  her  gigantic  capacity.  She  was  filling 
the  dipper  a  fourth  time,  but  he  pulled  it  out  of  her  hand,  fear- 
ing she  would  do  herself  a  mischief. 

"  I'm  so  thirsty  !"  she  whispered,  plaintively,  in  her  musical 
accents. 

"  What  are  you  doin'  in  the  woods  at  this  hour  ?"  answered 
Matt,  sternly. 

"  I'm  looking  for  Peter.  What  a  bonny  fire  !"  And  she  bent 
over  it,  holding  out  her  long,  white  hands  to  the  flames. 

Matt  divined  vaguely  that  Peter  must  be  the  sweetheart 
whose  desertion  had  crazed  the  poor  creature.  It  was  report- 
ed in  Cobequid  Village  that  the  handsome  German  immigrant 
who  had  been  betrothed  to  her  had  gone  off  forever  on  the 
pretext  of  "sugaring"  when  he  learned  that  she  was  one  of  the 
Water  -  Drinkers — the  unhappy  family  whose  ancestor  had  re- 
fused a  cup  of  cold  water  to  a  strange  old  woman,  who  there- 
upon put  the  curse  upon  him  and  his  descendants  that  they 


PEGGY    THE    WATER-DRINKER  65 

might  drink  water  and   drink  water  and  never   quench  their 
thirst.     Peggy  was  reputed  quite  harmless. 

"  You  haven't  seen  Peter,  have  you  ?"  she  cooed,  suddenly. 

"  No,"  replied  Matt,  with  a  fresh,  nervous  thrill.  "  But  this 
is  not  a  night  for  you  to  be  out  and  about.  It's  bitter  cold." 

"  It's  bitter  cold,"  she  repeated,  "  bitter  cold  for  an  old  man 
like  you,  but  not  for  a  girl  like  me,  loved  by  the  handsomest 
young  fellow  in  the  Province ;  the  heart  within  me  keeps  me 
warm,  always  warm  and  thirsty.  Give  me  more  water." 

"  No,  you've  hed  'nough,"  said  Matt.  "  It's  a  shame  your 
folks  don't  look  arter  you  better." 

"  Look  after  me !  They're  all  up  at  the  ball,  the  heartless 
creatures ;  but  I  saw  the  weddings,  both  of  them,  in  spite  of 
them  all,  and  I  think  it's  high  time  Peter  came  back  from  the 
sugaring  to  our  wedding,  and  I've  come  to  tell  him  so.  This 
is  the  spot  he  used  to  sugar  at.  Are  you  sure  you  haven't  seen 
him  ?  You  are  his  partner ;  confess,  now,"  she  wound  up,  ca- 
jolingly,  turning  her  lovely  face  towards  his  troubled  gaze. 

"  Can't  you  see  I'm  only  a  boy  ?"  he  replied. 

"  Nonsense.  You're  not  a  boy.  Boys  always  call  after  me 
and  pull  my  shawl.  I  know  all  the  boys." 

Matt  felt  the  moisture  gathering  afresh  under  his  eyelids. 

"  What's  your  name,  then  ?"  she  went  on,  sweetly. 

"  Matt,"  he  murmured. 

"  Ah,  mad  !"  she  cried,  in  ecstasy.  "  We  are  cousins  —  I 
knew  it !  That's  what  they  call  me." 

Her  wild  eyes  shone  in  the  firelight.     The  boy  shuddered. 

"  Not  mad,  but  Matt !"  he  corrected  her. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Mad  Matt !     Cousins  !     Mad  Peggy — Mad  Matt !" 

"  I'm  not  mad,"  he  protested,  feebly. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  are  !"  she  cried,  passionately.  "  I  can  see  it 
in  your  face.  And  yet  you  won't  give  me  a  cup  of  water." 

"  You've  drunk  'nough,"  said  the  boy,  soothingly. 

"  Oh,  what  lovely  little  devils,"  she  exclaimed,  catching  sight 
of  the  wall  decorations.  "  Do  you  see  devils,  too  ?  Didn't  I 
say  we  were  cousins  ?  Why,  there's  one  of  the  bridegrooms — 
ha !  ha  !  ha !  I  guess  he  didn't  show  the  cloven  hoof  this 
morning." 
o 


00  THE    MASTER 

"  Which  is  the  bridegroom  ?"  asked  Matt,  piqued  into  curi- 
osity. 

"  There — there  he  is  !  There  is  the  boy  !"  She  pointed  to 
the  best  portrait  of  Bully  Preep.  "  He  always  called  after  me, 
the  little  devil." 

Matt's  heart  beat  excitedly,  his  face  crimsoned.  But  his 
strange  visitor's  next  words  threw  him  back  into  uneasy  chaos. 

"  Oh,  but  everybody  is  saying  how  scandalous  it  is  !  with  his 
wife  only  six  months  in  her  grave.  Look  how  long  Peter  and 

1  have  waited.    Most  of  the  girls  in  the  village  get  engaged  half 
a  dozen  times ;  they  don't  know  what  love  is,  they  don't  know 
anything,  they've  got  no  education.    But  I've  only  been  engaged 
once,  and  I'm  so  thirsty.     And  you've  got  her  too,  the  little 
angel !     Everybody  is  saying  how  hard  it  is  for  her !     And  yet 
they  all  go  tp  the  ball.     May  they  dance  till  they  drop,  the 
hypocrites !" 

"  What  are  you  sayin'  ?"  faltered  Matt.  "  Hard  for  Ruth 
Hailey  ?  Why,  she's  only  a  little  girl." 

"  She  isn't  a  little  girl.  Little  girls  run  after  me.  I  know  all 
the  little  girls.  She's  a  little  angel !  Just  as  you've  pictured 
her.  Give  me  some  more  water." 

This  time  Matt  surrendered  the  dipper  to  her. 

"  Thank  you,  Cousin  Matt,"  she  said,  and  drank  feverishly. 
But  seeing  that  she  was  about  to  dip  again,  he  placed  himself 
between  her  and  the  barrel.  She  turned  away  with  a  marvel- 
lously dexterous  movement  considering  her  cumbrous  foot-gear, 
and  dipped  the  ladle  into  the  seething  caldron  instead.  But 
Matt  seized  her  arm  and  stayed  her  from  extracting  the  dip- 
per. 

"  You'll  scald  yourself,"  he  said. 

"  Let  go  my  arm,"  she  cried,  threateningly.  "  How  dare  you 
touch  me — you  are  not  Peter !" 

"You  mustn't  drink  any  more." 

"  You  are  very  cruel !"  she  moaned.  "  Who  is  that  sleeping 
there  ?  Perhaps  it  is  Peter.  I  will  wake  him  up ;  he  will  give 
me  water.  I  am  so  thirsty."  She  moaned  and  crooned  over 
the  three-legged  caldron,  stirring  the  sap  feebly  with  the  ladle 
in  her  efforts  to  wrest  herself  free,  and  the  white  steam  curled 


PEGGY    THE    WATER-DRINKER  67 

about  her  face,  and  gave  her  the  air  of  a  young,  beautiful  witch 
bent  over  a  caldron.  Matt  forgot  everything  except  that  he 
would  like  to  make  a  picture  of  her  as  she  appeared  now. 

"  You'd  best  go  to  sleep,"  he  said  at  last,  awakening  to  a  re- 
membrance of  the  strange  situation.  "  There's  my  bed— those 
fir-boughs — you  kin  lie  down  there  till  the  mornin',  and  I'll  cover 
you  with  my  blanket." 

"  I  want  water,"  she  crooned. 

"  You  kin't  get  it,"  said  Matt. 

"  Then  may  the  curse  light  on  you  and  yours,"  she  cried,  stir- 
ring the  sap  more  fiercely  in  her  struggle,  while  the  vapor  and 
the  wood  smoke  rose  in  denser  volumes  around  her.  "  May  you 
thirst  and  thirst,  and  never  be  satisfied  !  And  that  is  to  be  your 
fate,  Cousin  Matt.  I  read  it  in  your  face,  in  your  eyes.  Never 
to  quench  your  thirst — never,  never,  never  !  To  thirst  and  thirst 
and  thirst  for  everything,  and  never  to  be  satisfied,  never  to  have 
anything  you  want.  Mad  Matt  and  Mad  Peggy — cousins,  you 
and  I!  Ha!  ha!  ha!"  Her  laugh  of  malicious  glee  made  the 
boy's  blood  run  cold.  From  without  came  the  answering  screech 
of  a  wild-cat. 

"  Lie  down  and  rest !"  repeated  Matt,  imperatively. 

"  What !  stay  here  with  you  ?  No,  no,  no,  Cousin  Matt.  I 
know  what  you  want.  You  want  to  paint  me  and  put  me  on 
the  wall  among  the  devils  !  No,  no,  I  must  be  off  to  find  Peter. 
I  shall  stay  with  him  in  his  cabin." 

Her  grip  of  the  dipper  relaxed ;  it  reeled  against  the  side  oi 
the  pot.  She  turned  away,  and  Matt  let  go  her  arm  and  watched 
her,  spellbound.  She  drew  the  thick  dun  shawl  over  her  head, 
again  veiling  the  glory  of  the  golden  hair,  and  almost  brought 
the  edges  together  over  her  sad  beautiful  face,  so  that  the  eyes 
alone  shone  out  with  unearthly  radiance.  Then  she  moved 
slowly  towards  the  door  and  thrust  it  open,  and  the  wind  came 
in,  and  filled  the  entire  cabin  with  heavy,  acrid  smoke,  which 
got  into  Matt's  eyes  and  throat,  and  woke  even  the  Indian  boy, 
who  sat  up  choking  and  rubbing  his  black,  beady  eyes. 

"  Dam  door  shuttum  !"  he  cried,  with  unusual  vehemence. 

The  words  broke  Matt's  spell.  He  rushed  to  the  door,  but 
his  smarting  eyes  could  detect  no  gray-shawled  figure  gliding 


68  THE    MASTER 

among  the  gray  trunks.     He  closed  the  door,  wondering  if  he 
had  been  dreaming. 

"  'Tain't  your  turn  yet,  Tommy,"  he  said,  waving  away  the 
smoke  with  his  hand,  and  Tommy  fell  back  asleep,  as  if  mes- 
merized. Matt  was  as  relieved  at  not  having  to  explain  as  at 
Tommy's  momentary  wakefulness,  which  had  braced  him  against 
the  superstitious  awe  that  had  been  invading  him  while  the 
mad  beauty  cursed  him  with  that  sweet  voice  of  hers  that  no 
anger  could  make  harsh.  He  thought  of  the  apparition  with 
pity,  mingled  with  a  thrill  of  solemn  adoration  ;  she  had  for 
him  the  beauty  and  wildness  of  the  elemental,  like  the  sky  or 
the  sea.  And  yet  she  had  left  in  him  other  feelings — not  only 
the  doubt  of  her  reality,  but  an  uneasy  stirring  of  apprehensions. 
Was  there  nothing  but  insane  babble  in  this  talk  of  Ruth  Hai- 
ley  and  Abner  Preep  ?  A  fear  he  could  not  define  weighed  at 
his  heart.  Even  if  he  had  been  dreaming,  if  he  had  drowsed 
over  the  fire — as  he  must  in  any  case  have  done  not  to  have 
heard  the  scrape  and  clatter  of  snow-shoes  entering — the  dream 
portended  something  evil.  But,  no  !  it  was  not  a  dream.  As- 
suredly the  sap  in  the  barrel  had  sunk  to  a  lower  level.  With 
a  new  thought  he  lit  a  resinous  bough  and  slipped  out  quickly 
and  examined  the  dry  stiff  snow.  The  double  trail  of  departing 
snow-shoes  was  manifest,  meandering  among  the  bark  dishes 
and  irregularly  intersecting  the  trail  of  arrival.  The  radiant 
moonlight  falling  through  the  thin  bare  maple-boughs  made  his 
torch  superfluous,  except  in  the  fuscous  glade  of  leafy  ever- 
greens, along  which  he  followed  the  giant  footmarks  for  some 
little  distance.  He  paused,  leaning  against  a  tall  hemlock. 
Doubt  was  impossible.  He  had  really  entertained  a  visitor. 
Not  seldom  in  former  years  had  he  entertained  visitors  who 
came  to  camp  out  for  the  night,  which  they  made  uproarious. 
But  never  had  his  hut  sheltered  so  strange  a  guest.  He  was 
moved  at  the  thought  of  her  drifting  across  the  wastes  of  snow 
like  some  fallen  spirit.  He/looked  up  and  abstractedly  watched 
a  crow  sleeping  with  its  head  under  its  wing  on  the  top  of  the 
hemlock,  then  his  vision  wandered  to  the  flashing  streamers  of 
northern  light,  and,  higher  still,  to  those  keen  depths  of  frosty 
sky  where  the  stars  stood  beautiful,  and  they  drew  up  his 


DISILLUSIONS  69 

thoughts  yearningly  to  the  infinite  spaces.  Something  cried 
within  him  for  he  knew  not  what — save  that  it  was  very  great 
and  very  majestic  and  very  beautiful,  mystically  blending  the 
luminousness  of  light  and  color  with  the  scent  of  flowers  and 
the  troubled  sweetness  of  music ;  and  at  the  back  of  hie  dim, 
delicious  craving  for  it  was  a  haunting  certainty  that  he  would 
never  reach  up  to  it,  never,  never.  The  prophecy  of  mad  Peggy 
recurred  to  the  boy  like  a  cutting  blast  of  wind.  Was  it  true, 
then,  that  he  would  thirst  and  thirst,  and  nothing  ever  quench 
his  thirst  ?  He  held  up  his  torch  yearningly  to  the  stars,  while 
the  night  moaned  around  him,  and  the  flaring  pinewood  cast  a 
grotesque  shadow  of  him  on  the  pure  white  snow,  an  uncouth 
image  that  danced  and  leered  as  in  mockery. 


CHAPTER  VI 
DISILLUSIONS 

As  soon  as  he  could  get  away  next  morning  Matt  drew  on  his 
oversocks  and  started  for  home,  racked  by  indefinite  fears.  He 
had  not  troubled  to  rouse  Tommy  to  take  his  watch,  for  he  knew 
he  himself  would  not  sleep  a  wink,  and  it  seemed  a  pity  to  dis- 
turb so  deep  and  healthy  a  slumber ;  so  he  bustled  about  to 
blur  his  thoughts,  and  had  breakfast  ready  an  hour  after  sunrise, 
which  his  anxiety  did  not  prevent  him  from  observing.  To  see 
sky  and  forest  take  fire  in  gradual  glory  was  an  ecstasy  tran- 
scending the  apprehensions  of  the  moment. 

Tommy  had  asked  no  questions  during  the  morning  meal, 
and  made  no  complaints  about  Matt's  failure  to  rouse  him  ;  but 
on  being  apprised  of  his  companion's  intended  journey,  he  had 
pointed  to  the  scanty  wood-pile — a  reminder  that  had  delayed 
Matt  by  a  couple  of  hours  spent  in  felling  and  chopping  up  a 
straddle  or  two.  But  at  last  he  got  away,  Tommy  undertaking, 
in  a  minimum  of  monosyllables,  to  attend  to  everything  else. 
Matt  felt  afresh  the  strength  and  stability  of  Tommy.  Tommy 
was  like  Sprat — firm,  faithful,  and  uninquisitive. 


70  THE    MASTER 

He  had  five  miles  of  clogged  walking  before  him,  but  he 
made  fairly  good  progress,  for  he  was  unencumbered  by  snow- 
shoes,  having  a  light  step  and  an  instinct  for  hollows  and  drifts, 
and  his  oversocks,  which  reached  beyond  the  knee,  kept  out  the 
snow  when  he  trod  deep.  The  freshness  and  buoyancy  of  the 
morning  dispelled  his  alarm  ;  dread  was  impossible  under  that 
wonderful  blue  sky.  But  as  he  got  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  recesses  under  thick  boughs  that  shut  out  the  living  blue 
with  dead  gray,  and  took  the  sparkle  out  of  the  snow,  his  gloom 
returned,  and  lasted  till  he  was  nearly  at  his  journey's  end,  when 
the  road  caught  the  sunlight  again  just  as  the  thought  of  home 
flooded  his  soul.  And  soon  a  bend  brought  the  goal  in  sight. 
There  it  was,  the  dear  old  house,  standing  back  from  the  road, 
in  the  midst  of  its  little  clearing,  the  sun  shining  on  its  bleached 
clapboards,  the  black  window-sashes  standing  out  fantastically 
against  the  white  panes,  opaque  with  frosty  designs.  The 
smoke  curled  tranquilly  from  the  chimney  towards  the  over- 
arching azure,  making  the  home  seem  a  living  creature  whose 
breath  was  thus  condensed  to  visibility.  It  seemed  months  since 
he  had  left  it,  yet  it  was  absolutely  unchanged.  And  then  he 
heard  the  cock  crow  from  the  rear,  and  his  last  fears  vanished 
like  evil  spirits  of  the  night,  and  a  wave  of  pleasurable  anticipa- 
tion bore  him  to  the  porch. 

He  opened  the  door — no  one  ever  fastened  doors  by  day,  for 
burglars  came  only  in  the  milder  form  of  peddlers,  and  other 
visitors  were  accustomed  to  stable  their  horses  and  take  their 
seats  at  the  board  without  ceremony  or  warning.  It  was  not 
far  from  noon,  but  he  heard  no  sounds  about  the  house,  except 
the  crowing  of  the  cock,  which  continued,  and  brought  up  to 
memory  a  grotesque  and  long-obliterated  image  of  his  mother 
holding  on  to  the  leg  of  a  soaring  hawk  that  had  picked  up  a 
chicken.  He  listened  for  the  lowing  of  Daisy  ;  then,  remember- 
ing she  was  dead  and  salted,  he  moved  forward  into  the  passage. 
But  he  found  nobody  in  the  living-room.  There  was  not  even 
a  fire.  The  clumsy  spinning-wheel  stood  silent.  The  table  was 
bare  and  tidy ;  the  chairs  were  neatly  ranged.  He  ran  into  the 
kitchen — it  radiated  bleaker  desolation.  Matt  fought  against 
the  cold  chill  that  was  gathering  at  his  heart.  Of  course  there 


DISILLUSIONS  71 

would  be  nobody  at  home.  Harriet  was  sewing  somewhere, 
most  of  the  children  were  at  school ;  and  his  mother,  instead  of 
leaving  the  baby  in  the  kitchen  with  one  of  them,  must  have 
taken  it  with  her  to  her  work.  And  yet  it  was  all  very  de- 
pressing and  very  disappointing.  Then  he  remembered,  with  a 
fresh  shock,  the  smoke  he  had  seen  curling  from  the  roof,  and 
for  an  instant  he  was  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  the  uncanny.  An 
atmosphere  of  horror  seemed  to  brood  over  the  house.  But 
the  recollection  of  a  proverb  of  Deacon  Hailey's,  "  There's  no 
smoke  without  fire,  hey  ?"  uttered  in  a  moment  of  unusual  ar- 
ticulateness,  brought  back  common-sense.  He  ran  up  to  the 
bedrooms,  but  there  was  not  even  a  stove,  except  in  his  mother's 
room — a  room  tapestried  with  texts  worked  in  Berlin  wool  on 
perforated  card-board — where  the  bed  had  not  been  made,  and 
where  there  were  traces  of  extinct  logs.  Immeasurably  puzzled, 
and  wondering  if  the  smoke  had  been  an  optical  illusion,  he 
returned  to  the  living-room.  There  was  only  one  room  he  had 
not  gone  into — the  best  room — and  when  he  at  last  recollected 
the  existence  of  it  he  did  not  immediately  enter  it.  Only 
visitors  had  the  enjoyment  of  this  room  and  the  privilege  of 
sitting  gingerly  on  its  cane  chairs  and  surveying  its  papered 
walls ;  and,  in  the  absence  of  the  family,  there  could  be  no  re- 
ception in  progress.  When,  for  the  sake  of  logical  exhaustive- 
ness,  he  did  approach  the  door,  it  was  listlessly  and  with  a  cer- 
tain constraint,  amounting  to  awe.  His  nostrils  already  scented 
the  magnificent  mustiness  of  its  atmosphere.  He  opened  the 
door  with  noiseless  reverence.  Then  he  stood  rigid,  like  one 
turned  to  stone  by  the  sight  of  Medusa's  head.  It  was  indeed 
a  head  that  petrified  him — or,  rather,  two  heads,  one  pressed 
against  the  other.  Though  he  had  only  a  back  view  of  them, 
he  knew  them  both.  The  lank  black  hair  was  Bully  Preep's, 
the  long  auburn-brown  tresses  were  Harriet  Strang's.  A  fire 
had  been  lighted,  regardless  of  the  polish  of  the  Franklin  stove 
and  the  severity  of  its  fancy  scroll  -  work  and  ornamental 
urn;  and  before  this  fire  his  sister  sat  on  Abner's  knee,  and 
Abner  sat  on  a  cane  chair,  tilting  it  with  a  familiarity  that- 
hovered  on  contempt.  The  treble  shock  was  too  great.  Matt 
was  dumb  and  sick  and  cold,  though  red-hot  thoughts  hur- 


72  THE    MASTER 

tied  in  his  brain.  What!  The  skunk  had  sneaked  in  during 
his  mother's  absence,  and  it  was  thus  that  Harriet  did  the 
honors  ! 

He  struggled  to  get  his  voice  back.  "  Harriet !"  he  cried,  in 
raucous  remonstrance.  • 

Harriet  gave  a  little  shriek  and  turned  her  head.  The  color 
fled  from  her  soft  cheeks  as  she  caught  sight  of  her  outraged 
junior,  then  the  blush  returned  in  fuller  crimson.  Matt  fixed 
her  with  a  stern,  imperious  eye. 

"  What  are  you  doin'  in  the  best  room  ?"  was  the  phrase  that 
leaped  to  his  angry  lips. 

Abner  turned  on  him  a  face  of  smiling  friendship. 

"  The  best  thing,"  he  replied,  gayly. 

"  How  dare  you  kiss  my  sister  ?"  thundered  Matt. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Matt !"  said  Abner,  amiably.  "  She  isn't 
on'y  your  sister — she's  my  wife." 

"  Your  wife  !"  breathed  Matt. 

"  Yes,  don't  be  streaked,  dear.  We  were  married  yesterday." 
And  Harriet  disentangled  herself  from  Abner  and  ran  to  throw 
her  arms  round  Matt.  But  the  boy  repulsed  her  with  a  com- 
manding gesture. 

"  Don't  come  near  me  !"  he  cried,  huskily.  "  Where's  moth- 
er ?  Does  she  know  ?" 

"  Oh,  Matt !"  cried  Harriet,  reproachfully,  "  d'you  think  I'd 
marry  without  her  consent !" 

"  I  call  it  rael  mean,  anyways,"  he  cried,  tears  of  vexation 
getting  into  his  eyes  and  his  voice,  "  to  take  advantage  of  a 
feller  like  that,  jest  because  his  back's  turned  !" 

"  Waal,  we  won't  do  it  agen !"  cried  Abner,  with  unshakable 
good  -  humor.  "  See  here,  Matt,"  and  he  rose,  too,  revealing 
the  slight  tendency  to  crookedness  of  lower  limb  that  offended 
the  exigent  eye  of  his  mother-in-law,  "let's  be  pals.  You 
were  allus  a  spunky  little  chap,  and  I  liked  you  from  the  day 
you  stood  up  agin  me  and  blacked  my  eye,  though  you  had  to 
jump  up  a'most  to  reach  it.  I  was  a  beast  in  them  thar  days, 
but  I  raelly  ain't  now,  thanks  to  Harriet — God  bless  her !  I 
know  you  don't  like  my  legs,"  he  added,  with  a  flash  of  humor, 
"  but  there's  on'y  two  of  'em,  anyways." 


DISILLUSIONS  73 

"  An'  thet's  two  too  many,  you  crawlin'  reptile,"  retorted 
Matt.  Then,  turning  to  Harriet,  he  went  on  in  slow,  measured 
accents,  "  And  is  this — chap — goin'  to — live  here  ?" 

"  He  is  so,"  retorted  Harriet. 

"  Then,"  said  Matt,  with  ominous  calm — "  then  you  won't  hev 
me  here,  thet's  all." 

"Of  course  we  won't,"  said  Harriet,  with  a  pleasant  laugh. 
"  You'll  live  with  mother." 

"  With  mother  ?"  repeated  Matt,  staring. 

"  Yes ;  down  to  Deacon  Hailey's." 

"Hes  mother  gone  to  live  to  Deacon  Hailey's?"  he  asked, 
excitedly. 

"  You  bet !"  put  in  Abner,  grinning  genially. 

"What — altogether?"  exclaimed  Matt.  The  world  seemed 
going  round  as  it  did  in  the  geography  books. 

"  I  guess  so." 

"  I  won't  hev  it !"  cried  Matt,  agitatedly.  "  I  won't  hev  her 
slavin'  like  a  nigger.  It  was  bad  enough  afore,  when  she  hed  to 
go  there  every  day.  But  now  she's  naught  but  a  servant.  It's 
a  shame,  I  do  declare.  An'  you,  Harriet !"  he  said,  turning 
fiercely  on  her  again ;  "  ain't  you  'shamed  o'  yourself,  drivin' 
mother  out  of  house  and  home  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Harriet,  stoutly. 

The  laughter  that  lurked  about  her  mouth  filled  him  with  a 
trembling  presentiment  of  the  truth. 

"  Don't  you  understand  ?"  said  Abner,  kindly.  "  Your  moth- 
er's been  and  gone  and  married  the  deacon,  and  a  good  thing 
for  all  o'  you,  I  do  allow." 

"  You're  a  liar !"  hissed  the  boy.  The  world  spun  round 
more  fiercely. 

Abner  shrugged  his  shoulders  good-temperedly. 

"You  see,  it  was  all  arranged  in  a  hurry,  Matt,"  said  Harriet, 
deprecatingly.  "  An'  mother  thought  we'd  best  get  it  all  over, 
an'  so  we  were  both  married  yesterday,  an'  we  thought  it  a  pity 
to  bother  you  to  come  all  the  way.  But  you  hevn't  finished, 
hev  you  ?  Where's  the  sugar?" 

"  An'  a  nice  scandal,  I  vow !"  he  cried,  furiously.  "  Every- 
body is  talkin'  'bout  it." 


74  THE    MASTER 

"  Oh  come,  Matt,  thet's  a  good  un,"  laughed  Abner.  "  Why, 
you've  heerd  nuthin'  'bout  it." 

"Oh,  hevn't  I?"  returned  Matt,  with  sullen  mysteriousness. 
"  I  don't  know  thet  everybody  went  there  an'  everybody  said 
it  was  a  shame.  Oh  no  ;  I'm  blind  and  deaf,  thet's  what 
I  am." 

"  Don't  make  such  a  touse,  Matt,"  said  Harriet,  putting  her 
hair  behind  her  ears  with  some  calmness.  "  Don't  you  see  things 
air  ever  so  much  better  ?  I've  got  a  man  to  support  me,"  and 
she  put  her  arms  lovingly  round  Abner's  neck,  as  if  supporting 
him,  "an'  mother  '11  be  quite  a  lady,  not  a  servant,  as  you  were 
silly  'nough  to  allow,  an'  you  won't  hev  to  work  so  hard.  An' 
I'll  tell  you  what,  Matt,  you  shall  come  here  sometimes  an' 
draw  your  picters,  an'  mother  won't  know." 

But  Matt  clinched  his  teeth.  The  bait  was  tempting,  but 
unfortunately  it  reminded  him  of  his  obedience  to  his  mother 
the  night  before,  when  in  deference  to  her  views  he  had  denied 
himself  the  joy  of  Tommy's  pipe.  Oh,  how  he  had  been  duped 
and  bamboozled  !  At  the  very  hour  his  inner  eye  had  seen  her 
toiling,  sorrowful  at  her  spinning-wheel,  she  was  frolicking  at 
her  wedding-ball  in  gay  attire.  A  vast  self-compassion  softened 
his  indignation  and  raw  misery.  He  turned  his  back  on  the 
newly -married  couple,  and  strode  from  the  house,  lest  they 
should  misinterpret  his  tears.  But  the  tears  did  not  come — 
anger  rekindling  evaporated  them  unshed.  What  right  had  the 
deacon  to  steal  his  mother  without  even  asking  him?  And 
how  ignoble  of  his  mother  to  forget  his  father  thus !  He  fig- 
ured Ruth  Hailey  replacing  himself  by  another  boy  merely 
because  he  was  dead.  It  seemed  sacrilege.  And  yet  no  doubt 
Ruth  was  as  bad  as  the  rest  of  her  sex.  Had  she  not  submitted 
tamely  to  the  supplanting  of  her  dead  mother — nay,  was  she 
not  a  necessary  accomplice  in  the  conspiracy  to  keep  him  ig- 
norant of  the  double  marriage  ?  Then  he  had  a  vague  remem- 
brance that  he  had  once  heard  she  was  not  originally  the  dea- 
con's daughter,  but  only  the  late  Mrs.  Hailey's,  which  somehow 
seemed  to  exonerate  her  from  the  full  burden  of  his  doings. 
Still,  she  had  unquestionably  been  sly. 

His  feet  had  turned  instinctively  back  towards  the  lonely 


DISILLUSIONS  75 

forest.  No,  he  would  not  go  and  live  with  the  deacon,  not  even 
though  it  brought  Ruth  within  daily  proximity.  His  attitude 
towards  the  deacon  had  never  been  cordial — nay,  the  auditory 
strain  upon  him  when  "  Ole  Hey  "  spoke  to  him  had  gone  far 
towards  making  him  antipathetic.  It  seemed  monstrous  that 
such  an  old  mumbler  should  have  been  deemed  fit  to  replace 
the  cheery  sailor  who  had  gone  down  wrapped  in  his  flag.  No, 
Matt  at  least  would  have  none  of  him.  Life  under  his  roof 
would  be  a  discord  of  jarring  memories.  He  would  go  back  to 
his  hut  and  live  in  the  wood.  He  would  shoot  enough  to  live 
upon,  and  there,  alone  and  self-sufficient  and  free  as  its  denizens, 
he  would  pass  his  life  painting  and  sketching.  Or,  if  he  wanted 
society,  he  would  seek  that  of  the  Indian,  the  simple,  noble 
Indian,  and  pitch  his  lot  with  his  for  a  time  or  forever.  Or 
perhaps  Tommy  would  stay  with  him — Tommy  who  was  deep 
without  being  wily,  and  restful  without  being  dull.  What  a 
pity  Billy  was  disabled  ;  they  might  have  seceded  together,  but 
fate  had  separated  them,  not  his  will. 

The  five  miles  were  longer  now,  and  the  sky  had  grown  a 
shade  colder,  but  he  trod  the  gloomiest  paths  unchilled.  His 
heart  was  hot  with  revolt.  As  he  came  to  the  little  open  space 
round  the  hut  a  curious  phenomenon  arrested  his  attention. 
There  was  no  smoke  curling  above  the  chimney-hole.  A  prob- 
lem— the  exact  reverse  of  that  which  had  greeted  him  at  the 
other  terminus  of  his  journey — clamored  for  solution.  Surely 
Tommy  had  not  let  the  fire  go  out !  He  hastened  his  steps, 
and  saw  that  the  door  stood  wide  open  on  its  leather  hinges, 
projecting  outwards  into  the  forest.  Outside,  too,  empty  birch- 
bark  troughs  weje  scattered  about  in  lieu  of  being  piled  up 
neatly.  The  air  of  desolation  sobered  him  like  a  cold  douche. 
He  was  frightened.  He  had  not  even  courage  to  dwell  on  the 
thought  of  what  foreboding  whispered.  But  perhaps  Tommy 
had  only  gone  to  sleep  again,  and  forgotten  about  the  fire.  With 
a  gleam  of  hope  he  ran  to  the  entrance,  then  leaped  back  with 
a  wild  thrill,  and  slammed  the  door  to  and  put  his  back  to  it 
and  stood  palpitating,  restrained  only  by  excitement  from 
breaking  down  in  childish  tears.  The  interior  of  the  hut  had 
been  transformed  as  by  enchantment.  Of  barrels,  axes,  iron^ 


76 


THE    MASTER 


ware,  provender,  even  of  his  rude  paints,  there  was  riot  a  trace, 
though  the  birch-bark  picture  exhibition  was  undisturbed.  The 
birch-boughs  were  littered  over  the  floor.  There  was  no  Tommy. 
But  in  the  centre  of  the  cabin,  where  the  fire  had  been,  lay  a 
matted  bear,  voluptuously  curled  up  on  the  warm  ashes,  and 
licking  the  mellifluous  soil,  which  was  syrup-sodden  by  drops 
that  had  fallen  from  the  sap-pot.  The  beautiful  sunshine  had 
lured  the  animal  from  its  winter  sleeping  -  chamber,  famished 
after  its  long  fast. 

It  was  a  moment  Matt  never  forgot ;  one  of  those  moments 
that  age  and  imbitter.  As  he  stood  with  squared  shoulders 
against  the  rough,  battened  door,  that  was  built  of  stout  slabs, 
he  shook  from  head  to  foot  with  mingled  emotions.  Numb 
misery  alternated  with  burning  flashes  of  righteous  indignation 
against  humanity,  red  and  white.  And  with  it  all  was  a  stirring 
of  the  hunter's  instinct — an  itching  to  shoot  the  creature  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door — which  aggravated  his  vexation  by  the 
reminder  that  even  his  gun  had  been  stolen.  It  eased  him  a 
little  to  let  his  mind  dwell  on  the  prospect  of  potting  such 
glorious  game  ;  but  first  of  all  he  must  run  Tommy  to  earth. 
Tommy  could  not  have  gone  far,  burdened  as  he  would  be  with 
the  spoil. 

The  broken-hearted  boy  moved  stealthily  from  the  door  and 
pushed  up  a  small  trunk  that  he  had  cut  down  that  morning, 
but  not  yet  chopped  up.  With  some  difficulty  he  raised  this 
and  propped  it  against  the  door,  which,  being  already  latched, 
could  not  easily  be  burst  open  by  the  bear.  The  creature  was, 
moreover,  likely  to  resume  its  winter  nap  in  the  snug,  sweet 
quarters  in  which  it  found  itself.  Having  thus  trapped  his 
bear,  Matt  started  off  by  a  cross  -  cut  in  the  direction  of  the 
Indian  encampment,  to  which  he  presumed  Tommy  would  nat- 
urally have  returned  full-handed.  But  he  had  not  gone  a  hun- 
dred yards  before  he  called  himself  a  fool,  and  ran  back.  In 
his  agitation  he  had  forgotten  to  note  the  trail  of  the  sled  in 
which  Tommy  must  have  drawn  off  the  things.  This  he  now 
discovered  ran  quite  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  was  com- 
plicated not  only  by  Tommy's  footmarks,  but  by  a  man's. 
Whither  had  Tommy  decamped  ?  The  day  seemed  made  up  of 


DISILLUSIONS  77 

surprises  and  puzzles.  However,  there  was  everything  to  gain, 
or  rather  regain,  by  following  the  dusky  young  impostor  arid 
the  accomplice  who  had  helped  him  to  draw  the  heavy  sled. 
Matt  discovered  that  the  trail  led  towards  Long  Village,  two 
and  a  half  miles  off,  and  instantly  it  flashed  upon  him  that 
Tommy  had  gone  there  to  dispose  of  the  things.  He  quickened 
his  pace,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  strode  into  a  truer 
solution  of  the  mystery,  for  suddenly  he  found  himself  amid 
dogs  grubbing  in  the  sunshine  and  swaddled  pappooses  swing- 
ing on  the  poles  of  birch -bark  wigwams,  and  perceived  that 
the  vagrant  Micmacs  had  shifted  their  encampment  during  the 
fortnight.  Tommy's  knowledge  of  the  migration  argued  secret 
correspondence,  unless  a  tribal  tempter  had  visited  him  acci- 
dentally during  Matt's  absence — which  seemed  rather  improb- 
able. 

Matt's  soul  was  aflame  with  wrath  and  resentment.  He 
rushed  about  among  the  wigwams,  unceremoniously  peering  be- 
hind the  blankets  that  overhung  the  doorways,  which  were 
partly  blocked  by  spruce  boughs  arranged  to  spring  back  and 
forth.  Bow-legged,  round-shouldered,  dumpy  men,  with  com- 
plexions of  grayish  copper,  squatting  cross-legged  on  fir  boughs 
before  the  central  fire,  smoked  on  unresentful,  a  few  ejaculat- 
ing sullenly,  "  Kogwa  pawotumun  ?"  ("  What  is  your  wish  ?") 
Their  faces  had  nothing  of  the  American  hatchet-shape ;  they 
would  have  been  round  but  for  the  angularity  of  the  jaw,  and 
Chinese  but  for  the  eyes,  which  did  not  slant  upward,  but 
were  beady  and  wide  apart.  The  cheek-bones  were  high,  the 
nose  was  of  a  negro  flatness,  and  the  straight  black  hair  was 
long  and  matted.  In  attire  the  men  had  an  air  of  shabby  civil- 
ization, which  went  ill  with  the  blankets  and  skins  overwrap- 
ping  the  white  men's  leavings.  Near  the  door — in  the  quarter 
of  less  distinction — sitting  with  feet  twisted  round  to  one  side, 
one  under  the  other,  as  befits  the  inferior  sex — were  women 
good-looking  but  greasy,  who  wore  shawls  and  blankets  over 
their  kerchiefed  heads,  and  necklaces  of  blue  beads  twinkling 
against  their  olive  throats,  and  smoked  as  gravely  as  their 
lords.  But  Tommy  was  invisible.  Nor  could  Matt  see  any- 
thing of  the  stolen  goods.  But  in  one  tent  he  found  Tommy's 


78  THE    MASTER 

father,  and,  discourteously  omitting  the  "Kwa"  of  greeting, 
plied  him  with  indignant  questions  in  a  mixture  of  bad  English 
and  worse  Indian. 

Tommy's  father  understood  little  and  knew  nothing.  He  did 
not  invite  the  visitor  into  the  tent,  but  smoked  on  peacefully 
and  whittled  a  shaving,  and  Matt's  admiration  of  the  red  man's 
taciturnity  died  a  painful  death.  Had  Tommy's  father  not  even 
seen  Tommy  ?  No  ;  Tommy's  father  had  not  seen  Tommy  for 
half  a  moon,  and  the  smoke  curled  peacefully  round  Tommy's 
father's  greasy  head.  Never  had  the  unspeakable  uncleanliness 
of  the  picturesque  figure  struck  Matt  as  it  did  now.  He  moved 
away  with  heavy  heart  and  heavy  footstep,  and  interviewed 
other  Indians,  equally  dingy  and  equally  reticent;  even  the 
squaws  kept  the  secret. 

Matt  went  back  in  despairing  anger  and  poured  out  his  pas- 
sion in  a  flood  of  remonstrance  upon  the  unwashed  head  of 
Tommy's  father ;  he  pointed  to  the  trail  of  the  sled  that  drew 
up  at  Tommy's  father's  tent,  he  reasoned,  he  threatened,  he 
clinched  his  fist  and  stamped  his  foot;  and  Tommy's  father 
smoked  the  pipe  of  peace  and  whittled  the  shaving.  The  Indian 
held  the  stick  on  his  knee  and  drew  the  knife  towards  himself, 
unlike  the  white  man,  who  cuts  away  from  himself.  It  was  a 
crooked  knife,  with  a  notch  for  the  thumb  in  the  handle.  Matt's 
spirit  oozed  away  before  its  imperturbable  movement  to  and 
fro.  He  felt  sick  and  faint ;  he  became  vaguely  conscious  that 
he  had  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast.  Then  he  remembered 
the  bear  waiting  in  the  cabin — waiting  to  be  killed.  With  a 
happy  thought  he  informed  Tommy's  father  that  he  had  trapped 
a  bear  and  could  conduct  him  to  the  spot,  and  Tommy's  father 
instantly  began  to  understand  him  better ;  and  when  Matt  pro- 
ceeded to  offer  him  the  beast  in  exchange  for  the  stolen  goods, 
the  Micmac  betrayed  a  complete  comprehension  of  the  offer, 
and  with  a  courteous  exclamation  of  "  Up-chelase"  invited  him 
into  the  furthermost  and  most  honorable  portion  of  the  tent. 
He  even  rose  and  held  colloquy  with  some  of  his  brethren 
gathered  round.  A  bear  was  a  valuable  property — dead.  His 
snout  alone  was  worth  five  dollars,  when  presented  as  a  death 
certificate  to  a  grateful  government,  anxious  to  extinguish  him. 


DISILLUSIONS  79 

These  five  dollars  were  a  great  consideration  to  a  tribe  paid 
mainly  in  kind,  and  hard  pushed  to  find  coin  for  the  annual  re- 
mission of  sin  at  the  hands  of  the  priests.  The  bear's  skin 
would  fetch  four  or  five  dollars  more ;  while  its  three  or  four 
hundred  pounds  of  flesh  would  set  up  the  larder  for  the  season. 
As  a  result  of  the  native  council,  Tommy's  father  informed 
Matt  that  he  had  just  learned  Tommy  had  been  seen  that  morn- 
ing, but  that  he  had  hauled  the  sled  past  the  encampment  on 
his  way  to  Long  Village  to  sell  the  freight  (which  nobody  had 
suspected  was  not  his  own  property,  the  much  dam  thief).  He 
had,  however,  left  a  gun  with  a  boy  friend,  and  if  Matt  was  con- 
tent to  swop  the  bear  for  this,  he  could  have  it.  Matt,  fuming 
at  his  own  helplessness,  consented.  The  gun  was  accordingly 
produced ;  Matt  recognized  his  old  friend,  but  Tommy's  father 
explained  in  easy  pantomime  that  when  bear  was  dead  boy 
would  get  gun,  and  not  before ;  and  he  handed  it  to  a  blanket- 
less  by-stander,  who  had  evidently  bartered  external  heat  for 
internal  fire-water.  Then,  shouldering  his  own  gun,  he  motioned 
to  Matt  to  lead  the  way.  The  little  procession  of  three  stt 
forth,  the  second  Indian  prudently  providing  himself  with  a 
flat,  wide  sledge.  The  afternoon  was  waning,  the  blue  over- 
head had  lost  in  luminousness,  leaving  the  coloring  of  the  earth 
more  vivid.  But  the  shifting  of  nature's  kaleidoscope  had 
ceased  to  interest  Matt;  humanity  occupied  him  exclusively, 
and  the  evil  that  was  done  under  the  sun.  Man  or  woman, 
white  or  red,  they  were  all  alike — a  skulking,  shifty  breed.  It 
was  not  only  he  that  had  been  betrayed ;  it  was  truth,  it  was 
honor.  Were  these  things,  then,  merely  lip-babble  ? 

On  their  arrival  at  the  hut  Matt  explained  the  position.  He 
was  about  to  remove  the  log  that  braced  up  the  door,  but 
Tommy's  father  pulled  him  violently  back,  and  gestured  that  it 
was  much  more  convenient  to  shoot  the  animal  through  the 
chimney-hole.  Matt  felt  a  qualm  of  disgust  and  remorse.  It 
seemed  cowardly  to  give  the  poor  beast  that  had  taken  refuge 
in  his  hut  no  chance.  He  leaned  sullenly  against  the  door, 
feeling  almost  like  .one  who  had  betrayed  the  laws  of  hospital- 
ity, and  conscious,  moreover,  of  a  strange  savage  sympathy  with 
the  bear  in  its  strife  with  humanity.  His  last  respect  for  the 


80  THE    MASTER 

noble  red  man  vanished  when  the  two  Micmacs  clambered  upon 
the  low-pitched  roof.  They  uttered  "  ughs  "  of  satisfaction  as 
they  peeped  over  the  great  square  hole  and  perceived  their  prey 
asleep.  After  some  amiable  banter  of  the  animal  they  began 
to  put  their  guns  into  position.  But  Tommy's  father  insisted 
on  having  the  glory  of  the  deed,  since  he  was  paying  for  the 
bear  with  Matt's  gun,  and  his  rival  ungraciously  yielded.  In 
his  cocksureness,  however,  Tommy's  father  merely  hit  the  bear's 
shoulder.  The  creature  started  up  with  a  fierce  growl,  and  be- 
gan biting  savagely  at  the  bleeding  wound.  Excited  by  his  fail- 
ure and  the  brute's  leap  up,  Tommy's  father  leaned  more  over 
the  hole  for  his  second  shot ;  but  his  companion,  exclaiming  that 
it  was  his  turn  now,  pushed  him  back,  and  strove  to  get  his 
body  in  front.  Tommy's  father,  who  was  now  effervescing  with 
excitement,  thrust  himself  more  forward  still,  and  in  his  zeal 
succeeded  so  well  that  he  suddenly  found  himself  flying  head- 
foremost into  the  hut,  while  the  gun  went  off  at  random.  The 
bullet  missed,  but  the  man  struck  the  obfuscated  creature  with 
a  thud,  ricochetted  off  its  back,  and  lay  prostrate  on  the  branch- 
strewn  floor. 

The  sound  of  the  fall,  the  explosion,  the  cry  of  dismay  from 
the  roof,  informed  Matt  of  what  had  happened.  In  a  flash  his 
sympathy  went  back  to  man.  He  cried  to  the  other  Indian  to 
shoot,  but  the  latter's  arm  was  shaking,  and  the  bear,  after  a 
few  seconds  of  bewilderment,  had  risen  on  its  hind  legs  and 
stood  over  the  fallen  man  growling  fiercely,  so  that  the  Micmac 
was  afraid  of  hitting  his  friend.  Matt  reached  up  impatiently 
for  his  gun,  which  the  Micmac  readily  handed  to  him  in  unfore- 
seen violation  of  orders,  and  Matt,  overthrowing  the  door-prop 
with  the  butt  end,  lifted  the  latch  and  dashed  in.  Tommy's 
father  was  already  in  the  bear's  grip,  the  infuriated  animal's 
elastic  fore-paws  beginning  to  press  horribly  upon  his  ribs. 
Matt  clapped  the  barrel  of  the  gun  to  the  bear's  ear;  then  he 
was  overswept  by  a  fearsome  doubt  lest  the  gun  had  been  un- 
loaded since  it  had  left  his  hands.  But  his  suspense  was  short. 
He  pressed  the  trigger ;  there  was  a  ringing  explosion,  and  the 
creature  bounded  into  the  air,  relaxing  its  hold  of  the  Indian, 
upon  whom  it  fell  again  in  its  death-agony.  Matt,  aided  by  the 


DISILLUSIONS  81 

other  Micrnac,  who  harried  in,  grunting,  disentangled  Tommy's 
father  from  the  writhing  heap,  and  found  him  bruised  and 
breathless,  but  practically  uninjured.  Tommy's  father  vowed 
eternal  gratitude  to  his  rescuer,  and  said  his  life  was  hencefor- 
ward at  Matt's  disposal.  The  boy  curtly  asked  for  his  property 
instead,  whereupon  the  Indian  shook  his  head  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  in  token  of  impotence.  Rolling  the  bear  over  with 
a  prod  of  his  contemptuous  foot,  he  produced  his  knife  and 
started  scalping  and  skinning  the  dead  enemy,  while  his  brother- 
in-arms  lit  some  boughs,  and  cut  a  juicy  steak  from  the  carcass 
and  set  it  to  broil.  The  warmth  was  grateful,  for  the  shadows 
were  fast  gathering  and  the  hyperborean  hours  returning.  A 
covey  of  bob-whites  whirred  past,  and  the  weird  note  of  a  hoot- 
owl  was  borne  on  the  bleak  air. 

The  Indians  offered  the  boy  "a  cut  from  the  joint,"  and  he 
refused  sulkily — a  deadly  insult  in  normal  circumstances.  But 
the  keen  pangs  of  hunger  and  the  delicious  odor  of  the  meat 
weakened  him,  and  a  later  invitation  to  join  the  squatting  diners 
found  him  ravenously  responsive,  though  he  felt  he  had  bartered 
away  his  righteous  indignation  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  During 
the  meal  his  guests  or  his  hosts  (he  knew  not  which  they  were) 
betrayed  considerable  interest  in  his  mural  decorations,  which 
they  evidently  regarded  as  symptoms  of  a  relapse  from  Chris- 
tianity, and  they  were  astonished,  too,  at  his  refusal  to  quaff 
more  than  a  mouthful  or  two  of  their  rum — the  coarse  con- 
coction locally  nicknamed  "  rot-gut."  While  Matt,  who  had 
started  last,  was  still  eating  from  the  birch-bark  dish  he  had 
utilized  for  the  purpose,  Tommy's  father  lit  his  after-dinner 
pipe,  and,  having  taken  a  few  whiffs,  passed  it  on  to  his  com- 
panion, who  in  turn  held  out  to  Matt  the  long,  reedy  stem  with 
its  feather  ornaments. 

The  offer  sent  a  thrill  through  the  boy's  whole  being.  All 
his  grievances  ascended  afresh  from  the  red  stone  bowl  and 
mingled  with  the  fragrant  suoke.  How  good,  how  obedient 
he  had  been !  And  all  for  what  ?  A  lump  gathered  in  his 
throat,  so  that  he  could  not  swallow  his  bit  of  bear.  He 
nodded  assent,  his  heart  throbbing  with  defiant  manhood,  and 
motioned  to  the  Micmac  to  place  the  pipe  beside  his  dish  till  he 


82  THE     MASTER 

was  ready  for  it.  The  two  Indians  then  hauled  the  carcass 
athwart  the  sledge  hastily,  for  night  had  come  on  as  though 
shed  from  the  starless  sky,  and  they  called  to  Matt  to  come 
along,  but  Matt  shouted  back  that  he  did  not  intend  to  accom- 
pany them.  He  no  longer  craved  to  cast  in  his  lot  with  the 
red  man.  Yet  he  went  to  the  door  of  his  tent  to  watch  his 
fellow-hunters  disappear  among  the  sombre  groves,  and  a  deeper 
dusk  seemed  to  fall  on  the  landscape  when  the  very  rustle  of 
their  passage  died  away.  But  as  he  turned  in  again  and  fast- 
ened up  the  door,  his  heart  leaped  up  afresh  with  the  leaping 
flames.  The  sense  of  absolute  solitude  became  exultation — a 
keen,  bitter  joy.  Here  was  his  home ;  he  had  no  other.  He 
had  parted  company  with  humanity  forever. 

He  reseated  himself  on  a  little  pile  of  fir  boughs  in  his  deserted 
home,  that  was  naked  but  for  the  wall-pictures — the  least  com- 
forting of  all  possible  salvage,  since  they  were  the  only  things 
Tommy  had  not  thought  worth  stealing.  As  Matt  sat  brooding, 
darker  patches  on  the  soil,  and  spots  upon  some  of  those  pict- 
ures, caught  his  eye.  He  saw  they  were  of  blood.  In  one  place 
there  was  quite  a  little  pool  which  had  not  yet  sunk  into  the 
earth  or  evaporated.  He  touched  it  curiously  with  his  finger, 
and  wiped  away  the  stain  against  a  leaf.  Then  with  a  sudden 
thought  he  curled  a  piece  of  bark  and  scooped  up  the  blood 
into  his  birchen  dish,  as  a  possible  color,  murmuring,  gleefully  : 

"'Who  caught  his  blood?' 
4 1,'  said  the  fish, 
'With  my  little  dish, 
I  caught  his  blood.'  " 

In  moving  the  "  little  dish "  he  laid  bare  Tommy's  father's 
calumet,  forgotten.  He  took  it  up.  How  the  universe  had 
changed  since  last  he  held  a  pipe  in  his  hand  —  only  last 
night !  Again  he  heard  the  howl  of  a  wild-cat,  and  he  looked 
round  involuntarily,  as  if  expecting  to  find  Mad  Peggy  at  his 
elbow.  But  he  had  no  sense  of  awe  just  now — though  he  had 
barred  his  door  inhospitably  against  further  bears — only  the 
voluptuousness  of  liberty  and  loneliness,  the  healthy  after-glow 
of  satisfied  appetite,  and  the  gayety  born  of  flaming  logs  and  a 


THE    APPRENTICE  83 

couple  of  raouthfuls  of  fire-water.  The  Water-Drinker's  proph- 
ecy seemed  peculiarly  inept  in  view  of  the  pipe  he  held  in 
his  hand.  With  tremulous  anticipation  of  more  than  mortal 
rapture  he  relit  it.  The  sensation  was  unexpectedly  pungent, 
but  Matt  puffed  away  steadily  in  hope  and  trust  that  this  was 
merely  the  verdict  of  an  unaccustomed  palate,  and  he  found  a 
vast  compensatory  pleasure  in  his  ability  to  make  the  thing 
work,  to  send  the  delicate  wreaths  into  the  air  as  ably  as  any 
Micmac  or  deacon  of  them  all. 

But  soon  even  this  pleasure  began  to  be  swamped  by  a  wave 
of  less  agreeable  sensation,  and  Matt,  puzzled  and  chagrined, 
after  a  gallant  stand,  threw  down  the  calumet,  and  hastened 
into  the  cold  air  with  palpitating  heart  and  splitting  head,  and 
there,  in  the  maple  wood,  Bruin  was  avenged.  That  night, 
despite  his  vigil  of  the  night  before,  Matt  Strang  vainly  en- 
deavored to  close  his  eyes  upon  an  unsatisfactory  world. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE     APPRENTICE 

THE  long,  endless  years,  crowded  with  petty  episodes  and 
uniformities,  and  moving  like  a  cumbrous,  creeping  train  that 
stops  at  every  station,  flash  like  an  express  past  the  eye  of 
memory.  Yet  it  is  these  unrecorded  minutiae  of  monotonous 
months  that  color  the  fabric  of  our  future  lives,  eating  into  our 
souls  like  a  slow  acid.  When,  in  after  years,  Matt  Strang's 
youth  defiled  before  him,  the  panorama  seemed  more  varied 
than  when  he  was  living  the  scenes  in  all  their  daily  detail  of 
dull  routine,  and  when,  whatever  their  superficial  differences, 
they  were  all  linked  for  him  by  an  underlying  unity  of  toil  and 
aspiration. 

First  came  his  apprenticeship  in  Cattermole's  saw-mill,  at  the 
opposite  outskirt  of  the  forest,  twenty  miles  from  Cobequid. 
For,  though  he  early  tired  of  savagery,  as  a  blind-alley  on  the 
road  to  picture-painting,  he  refused,  in  the  dogged  pride  of  his 


84  THE    MASTER 

boyish  heart,  to  return  to  his  folks,  contenting  himself  with  in- 
forming them  of  his  whereabouts  and  of  his  intention  to  ap- 
prentice himself  (with  or  without  their  consent).  Labor  being 
so  scarce  that  year,  Deacon  Hailey  drove  over  in  great  haste  to 
offer  him  a  loving  home.  Matt,  who  happened  to  be  in  the 
house,  which  was  only  parted  from  the  mill-stream  by  a  large 
vegetable -garden,  saw  through  a  window  the  deacon's  buggy 
arrive  at  the  garden-path,  and  the  deacon  himself  alight  to  open 
the  wooden  gate.  The  boy's  resentment  flamed  afresh,  and  it 
was  supplemented  by  dread  of  the  deacon's  inarticulate  conver- 
sation. He  fled  to  Mrs.  Cattermole  in  the  kitchen. 

She  was  a  shrewish,  angular  person,  economical  of  everything 
save  angry  breath.  A  black  silk  cap  with  prim  bows  and 
ribbons  sat  severely  on  her  head,  and  a  thread-net  confined  her 
hair.  Cattermole,  a  simple,  religious,  hen-pecked  creature,  had 
gone  to  the  village  store  to  trade  off  butter. 

"  There's  Ole  Hey  coming  !"  cried  Matt,  breathlessly. 

"  Kin't  you  speak  quietly  ?"  thundered  Mrs.  Cattermole. 
"  You  made  my  heart  jump  like  a  frog.  You  don't  mean  Ole 
Hey  from  Cobequid,  the  man  es  you  said  married  your  mother?" 

"  Yes,  thet's  the  skunk.  I  reckon  he's  come  to  take  me 
back." 

Mrs.  Cattermole's  eyes  flashed  angrily.  "  Well,  I  swan  !  But 
you've  promised  to  bide  with  us." 

"  Thet's  so.  I  wouldn't  go  back  fur  Captain  Kidd's  treasure  ! 
I  won't  see  him." 

"  I'll  tell  him  you're  gone  away." 

"  No,"  said  Matt,  sturdily.  "  I  wrote  that  I  was  goin'  to  be 
'prenticed  here,  and  there  ain't  any  call  for  lies.  Tell  him  I'm 
in  the  kitchen  and  I  won't  come  out,  and  I  don't  want  to  hev 
anythin'  to  do  with  him.  See  !" 

"  Well,  set  there  and  mind  the  cradle,  and  I'll  jest  give  him 
slockdologee.  You  uns  allow  you're  considerable  smart,  Cobe- 
quid way,  but  I  reckon  he's  struck  the  wrong  track  this  time." 

Matt  grinned  joyously.  "  Spunk  up  to  him,  ma'am  !"  he 
cried,  with  stirring  reminiscences  of  fights  at  McTavit's. 
"  Walk  into  him  full  split !" 

"  You  mind  the  baby,  young  man.      There  won't  be  no  touse 


THE    APPRENTICE  85 

at  all.  He  don't  set  foot  in  my  kitchen,  and  there's  an  end 
of  it." 

Mrs.  Cattermole  greeted  the  deacon  politely,  and  informed  him 
that  the  lad  he  was  inquiring  after  was  sulking  in  the  kitchen, 
and  that  he  refused  to  receive  his  visitor  on  any  account.  The 
deacon  sighed  unctuously  with  an  air  of  patient  martyrdom. 
Matt's  obduracy  heightened  his  estimate  of  the  lad's  value  as  a 
gratuitous  field-worker,  and  sharpened  his  sense  of  being  robbed 
of  what  small  dowry  Mrs.  Strang  had  brought  him. 

"The  boy  is  dreadful  set  agin  me,"  he  complained.  "But, 
es  I  told  his  poor  mother,  if  you  let  a  boy  run  wild,  wild  he 
runs,  hey  ?  Anyways,  it  ain't  fur  me  to  fail  in  lovin'-kindness. 
Eye  for  eye,  tooth  for  tooth,  ain't  the  gospel  we're  called  upon 
to  practise.  I  allus  thinks  there's  no  sort  o'  use  in  bein'  a  Chris- 
tian on  Sundays  and  a  heathen  on  week-days." 

"  No,  thet  thar  ain't,"  Mrs.  Cattermole  assented,  amiably. 

"  Even  to  beasts  a  man  kin  be  a  Christian,  hey  ?  I  reckon  I'd 
better  wait  in  your  kitchen  an'  give  the  mare  a  rest.  If  /'ve 
come  on  a  fool's  errand,  thet  ain't  a  reason  my  ole  nag  should 
suffer,  hey  ?" 

Mrs.  Cattermole,  seeing  the  outworks  taken,  directed  the 
deacon,  by  a  flank  movement,  into  the  parlor,  as  alone  befitting 
his  dignity.  To  Matt  this  parlor,  far  finer  than  the  best  room 
at  home,  was  a  chamber  of  awe,  but  also  of  attraction,  for  its 
walls  were  hung  with  sober  Bible  prints.  Mrs.  Cattermole  stood 
there  among  her  splendors  with  her  back  to  the  door,  partly  for 
defensive  purposes,  partly  so  as  not  to  depreciate  one  of  the 
hair-cloth  chairs  by  sitting  down.  It  was  enough  for  one  day 
that  her  guest  sat  solidly  on  the  rocking-chair  of  honor. 

"  We've  been  hevin'  too  much  soft  weather,  Mrs.  Cattermole, 
arter  all  thet  heavy  snow." 

"  Yes,  I'm  afeard  the  dam  will  go  out,"  responded  Mrs.  Catter- 
mole, gloomily. 

They  discussed  the  disastrous  thaw  of  a  few  years  back,  with 
a  vivid  remembrance  of  the  vegetables  and  dairy  produce  spoiled 
in  the  flooded  cellars. 

"  But  it's  the  Lord's  will,"  summed  up  the  deacon.  "It  ain't 
any  use  heapin'  up  worldly  treasure,  I  allus  thinks." 


86  THE    MASTER 

"  Thet's  a  fact."  Mrs.  Cattermole  shook  her  head  in  sad 
acquiescence. 

"  Heaven's  the  on'y  safe  place  to  lay  up  your  goods,  hey  ? 
So  I  guess  I'm  just  goin'  to  forgive  thet  durned  boy  all  the 
anxiety  he's  giv  his  poor  mother  an'  me,  an'  take  him  back  right 


•n 


"  Oh,  but  I  guess  you  ain't,"  said  Mrs.  Cattermole.  "  We've 
promised  to  take  him  on  here." 

"  We'll  let  you  off  thet  thar  promise,  Mrs.  Cattermole.  We 
ain't  folks  as  allus  wants  to  hold  people  tight  to  every  onthink- 
in'  word.  An'  you  won't  be  the  loser  hardly,  for  the  lad  ain't 
worth  a  tin  pint  to  mortal  man.  He's  a  dreamy  do-nuthin',  an' 
the  worry  he's  been  to  his  poor  mother  you've  no  idee — allus 
wastin'  the  Lord's  hours,  unbeknown  to  her,  in  scrawlin'  picters 
an'  smutchin'  boards  with  colors." 

"  I  reckon  he'll  come  in  handy  in  our  paint-shop,  then." 

The  deacon  shook  his  head,  as  if  pitying  her  bubble  de- 
lusions. 

"  He  ain't  smart,  an'  he  ain't  good-tempered.  You  see  for 
yourself  how  grouty  he  is  to  the  best  friend  a  boy  ever  hed." 

"  He  ain't  smart,  I  know.  Thet's  why  we  ain't  goin'  to  pay 
him  no  wages." 

The  deacon  chawed  his  quid  and  swayed  in  silent  discomfiture. 

"  Ah,  it's  his  poor  mother  I'm  thinkin'  of,"  he  said,  after  a 
while.  "  She's  thet  delicate  she'd  kinder  worry  if  he  was  to — 
a  mother's  heart,  hey  ?  If  'twas  my  boy,  I'd  be  proper  glad  to 
see  him  in  the  han's  of  sech  a  hard-workin',  God-fearin'  couple." 

"  You  hedn't  ought  to  talk  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Cattermole, 
softening.  "  Father  'd  be  terrible  ugly  if  I  was  to  settle  any- 
thin'  while  he  was  to  the  store." 

"And  if  he  wouldn't  it's  a  pity.  Wives,  obey  your  husbands, 
hey  ?  But  there  ain't  no  call  for  hurry.  More  haste  less  speed, 
I  allus  thinks.  But  I  don't  want  to  keep  you  from  your  occu- 
pations. There  air  some  visitors  who  forgit  folks  kin't  afford 
to  keep  more  'n  one  Sunday  a  week,  hey  ?  Sorter  devil's  darnin'- 
needles  flyin'  into  your  ear — they  worry  you,  and  they  don't  do 
themselves  no  good.  So  don't  you  take  no  notice  of  me.  I'll 
jest  talk  to  Matt  to  fill  up  the  time." 


THE    APPRENTICE  87 

Mrs.  Cattermole  straightened  herself  against  the  door.  "  He 
won't  listen  ;  he's  too  mad." 

'*  I  reckon  I  could  tone  him  down  some." 

"  Guess  not.     He's  too  sot — he  won't  come  in." 

"  I  ain't  proud.  I'll  go  to  him.  True  pride  is  in  doin' 
what's  right,  I  allus  thinks.  Some  folks  kin't  see  the  difference 
between  true  pride  an'  false  pride.  I'll  go  to  the  kitchen." 

"  I'd  rayther  you  didn't,  deacon.     It's  all  in  a  clutter." 

The  conversation  drooped.  The  deacon's  mouth  moved  in 
mere  cluiwing.  Swallowing  his  quid  in  deference  to  the  parlor, 
he  cut  himself  a  new  chunk. 

"  You've  heerd  about  the  doctor,  Mrs.  Cattermole  ?"  he  began 
again. 

"  I  dunno  es  I  hev." 

"  What !  Not  heerd  about  our  doctor  es  was  said  to  practise 
the  Black  Art?" 

"  Oh,  the  sorcerer  es  lives  on  the  ole  wood-road.  My  brother 
who  drives  the  stage  was  tellin'  me  'bout  it.  He  sets  spirits 
turnin'  tables,  tellin'  the  future,  an'  nobody  '11  go  past  his  house 
arter  dark." 

"  Ah,  but  the  elders  called  on  him  last  week,"  said  the  deacon. 
"  Of  course  we  couldn't  hev  him  in  the  vestry.  An'  he  ex- 
plained to  the  committee  thet  sperrits  or  devils  ain't  got  nuth- 
in'  to  do  with  it." 

"  Lan'  sakes  !     An'  you  believed  him  ?" 

"  Waal,  my  motto  is  allus  believe  your  fellow-critters.  An 
evil  mind  sees  a  lookin'-glass  every  ways,  hey  ?  He  jest  showed 
us  how  to  make  a  table  turn  and  answer  questions.  He  says 
it's  no  more  wonderful  than  turnin'  a  grindstone." 

*'  I  guess  he's  pulled  the  wool  over  the  eyes  o'  the  Church," 
said  Mrs.  Cattermole,  sceptically. 

"  Not  hardly  !  He  turned  thet  thar  table  in  broad  daylight 
with  the  Bible  open  upon  it,  to  show  thet  Satan  didn't  hev  a 
look  in." 

"  The  Bible  on  it !     'Pears  to  me  terrible  ongodly." 

"  Ongodly  !  Why,  you  an'  me  kin  do  it — two  pillars  o'  the 
Church  !  I  guess  the  Evil  One  couldn't  come  nigh  us,  hey  ?" 

"  I  dunno  es  it  would  turn  if  you  an'  me  was  to  do  it." 


88  THE    MASTER 

"  You  bet !  It  told  me  'bout  the  future  world,  an'  my  poor 
Susan's  Christian  name,  an'  how  much  to  ast  for  my  upland 
hay." 

"Good  Ian'!"  cried  Mrs.  Cattermole.  "An'  would  it  tell  me 
whether  my  sister  is  through  her  sickness  yet?" 

"  You  may  depend  !" 

"  My  !  Thet's  jest  great !"  And  Mrs.  Cattermole  eagerly 
inquired  how  one  set  about  interrogating  the  oracle. 

The  deacon  explained,  adding  that  the  parlor  table  would  not 
do.  It  must  be  a  rough  deal  table. 

"  Ah,  the  kitchin  table,"  said  Mrs.  Cattermole,  walking  into  the 
elaborately  laid  trap. 

"I  dunno,"  said  the  deacon,  shaking  his  head.  "Air  you 
sure  it  ain't  too  large  for  us  to  s.pan  around  ?" 

"We  could  let  the  flaps  down." 

The  deacon  chawed  reflectively. 

"  Waal,  it  might,"  he  said,  cautiously,  at  last.  "  There  ain't  no 
harm  in  tryin'.  We  hedn't  ought  to  give  up  anythin'  without 
tryin',  I  allus  thinks.  One  never  knows,  hey  ?" 

"  I  kinder  think  we  ought  to  try,"  said  Mrs.  Cattermole. 

The  deacon  rose  ponderously,  and  followed  his  guide  into  the 
kitchen. 

"  Why,  there's  Matt !"  he  cried,  in  astonished  accents.  "  Good- 
day,  sonny." 

Matt  strained  his  ears,  but  pursed  his  lips  and  rocked  the 
cradle  in  violent  impassivity.  The  deacon  was  uneasy  at  the 
boy's  sullen  resentment.  He  could  not  understand  open  ene- 
mies. 

"  How's  your  health,  hey  ?"  he  asked,  affectionately. 

"  Oh,  I'm  hunkydory,"  said  Matt,  in  off-hand  school-boy  slang. 

"  I'm  considerable  glad  you've  found  a  good  place  with  rael 
Christians,  Matt.  I  on'y  hope  you've  made  up  your  mind  to 
work  hard  an'  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  It's  never  too  late  to 
mend,  I  allus  thinks.  You're  growin'  a  young  man,  now ;  no 
more  picter-makin',  hey?  If  it  warn't  that  you  air  so  moony 
an'  lay -abed  I'd  give  you  a  chanst  on  my  own  land,  with  pocket- 
money  into  the  bargain,  hey,  an'  p'raps  a  pair  o'  store  shoes  fur 
a  Chrismus-box." 


THE    APPRENTICE  89 

A  flame  shot  from  Mrs.  Cattermole's  now-opened  eyes.  She 
shut  the  cellar  door  with  a  vicious  bang,  but  ere  she  could  speak 
Matt  cried  out,  "  I  wouldn't  come,  not  fur  five  shillin's  a  week !" 

"  An'  who  wants  you  to  come  fur  money  ?  What  is  money, 
hey  ?  Is  it  health  ?  Is  it  happiness  ?  No,  no,  sonny.  If  money 
was  any  use,  my  poor  Susan  would  hev  been  alive  to  this  day. 
You'll  know  better  when  you're  my  age." 

He  spat  out  now,  directing  the  stream  into  the  sink  under  the 
big  wooden  pump. 

"Don't  worry  'bout  him,"  interposed  Mrs.  Cattermole. 
"  Here's  the  table." 

Deacon  Hailey  waved  a  rebuking  palm.  "  Dooty  afore  pleas- 
ure, Mrs.  Cattermole.  See  here,  sonny,  I've  been  talkin'  with 
Mrs.  Cattermole  'bout  you.  She's  promised  me  to  be  a  mother 
to  you,  Heaven  bless  her !  But  I  kin't  forget  you've  got  a  moth- 
er o'  your  own." 

"  She  ain't  my  mother  now,  she's  Ruth's  mother,"  said  Matt, 
half  divining  the  mumble  of  words. 

"  She's  mother  to  both  o'  you.  A  large  heart,  thet's  what 
she's  got.  An'  if  she's  Ruth's  mother,  then  I'm  your  father, 
hey  ?  An'  it  ain't  right  of  •  you  to  disobey  your  father  and 
mother.  But  young  folks  nowadays  treats  the  commandments 
like  old  boots,"  and  the  deacon  sighed,  as  if  in  sympathy  with 
the  sorrows  of  a  neglected  decalogue. 

"  I've  got  no  father  an'  no  mother,"  said  Matt.  "  An'  I'm  go- 
in'  to  be  a  picture-painter  soon  es  I  kin.  I  won't  do  anything 
else,  thet's  flat.  An'  when  I'm  bigger  I'm  goin'  to  write  to  my 
uncle  Matt  and  see  if  he  kin  sell  my  pictures  fur  me.  If  you 
was  to  drag  me  back  by  force,  I'd  escape  into  the  woods.  An' 
Fd  work  my  way  to  London  to  be  handy  iny  uncle  Matt.  I 
reckon  he  takes  in  'prentices  same  es  the  boss  here.  So  you 
jest  tell  my  mother  I'm  done  with  her,  see !  I  don't  want  to 
hear  any  more  'bout  it." 

His  face  resumed  its  set  expression,  and  his  rocking  foot  its 
violence. 

The  deacon  cast  a  reproachful,  irate  glance  at  Mrs.  Catter- 
mole. 

"  Did  I  tell  you  a  lie  when  I  said  he  warn't  worth  thet  thar  ?" 


90  THE    MASTER 

he  vociferated,  snatching  the  tin  dipper  from  the  water-bucket. 
The  noise  disturbed  the  baby,  which  began  to  whimper  feebly. 
Matt  turned  his  chair's  back  on  the  deacon  and  gazed  studious- 
ly towards  the  wood-house  in  the  yard.  The  deacon's  face  grew 
apoplectic.  He  seemed  about  to  throw  the  dipper  at  the  back 
of  Matt's  head,  but  mastering  himself  he  let  it  fall  with  a  splash, 
and  said,  quietly :  "  I  guess  you  won't  hev  me  to  blame  if  he 
turns  out  all  belly  an'  no  han's.  Some  folks  'd  say  I'm  offerin' 
you  a  smart,  likely  young  man,  with  his  heart  in  the  wood-pile. 
But'thet's  not  Deacon  Hailey's  way.  He  makes  a  pint  of  tellin' 
the  bad  pints.  He's  a  man  you  could  swap  a  horse  with,  hey  ? 
I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Cattermole,  thet  durned  boy  is  all  moonshine  an' 
viciousness,  stuffed  with  conceit  from  floor  to  ridge-piece.  Pic- 
ters,  picters,  picters,  is  all  he  thinks  about !  Amoosin'  himself — 
thet's  his  idee  of  life  in  this  vale  of  tears.  I  reckon  he  thinks 
he's  goin'  to  strike  Captain  Kidd's  treasure.  But,  arter  all,  he 
ain't  your  burden.  I've  giv  his  poor  mother  a  home,  an'  I  ain't 
the  man  to  grudge  bite  an'  sup  to  her  boy.  So  even  now  I 
don't  mind  lettin'  you  off.  He's  my  crost,  and  I've  got  to  bear 
him.  'Tain't  no  use  .bein'  a  Christian  only  in  church,  hey  ?" 

"  I  guess  I'm  a  Christian,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Cattermole.  "  So  I 
must  bear  with  the  poor  lad  an'  train  him  up  some  in  the  way  he 
should  go.  An'  then  there's  father.  You're  a  rael  saint,  deacon, 
but  I  sorter  think  where  heaven  is  consarned  father  'ud  like  a 
look-in  es  well.  So  let's  say  no  more  'bout  it.  Now,  then, 
deacon,  the  table's  waitin' !" 

He  ignored  the  patient  piece  of  furniture.  "  Waal,  don't 
blame  me  any  if  the  buckwheat  turns  out  bad,"  he  shouted, 
losing  his  self-control  again,  and  spurting  out  his  nicotian  fluid 
at  the  stove  like  an  angry  cuttle-fish. 

"  Thet's  so,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Cattermole,  quietly.  "  Now, 
then,  Deacon  Hailey,  jest  you  set  there."  She  had  taken  a 
chair  and  placed  her  hands  on  the  table. 

"  Hush  !"  said  the  deacon.  "  Don't  you  see  thet  thar  young 
un  wakin'  up  ?  The  tarnation  boy  hes  been  shakin'  him  like  an 
earthquake.  I  didn't  know  es  you  kep'  your  baby  in  the 
kitchin  or  I  wouldn't  hev  troubled  to  come.  When  thet  thar 
table  kinder  began  to  dance  and  jump,  you  wouldn't  thank  me 


THE    APPRENTICE  91 

fur  rousin'  the  innocent  baby,  hey  ?  Sleep,  sleep,  thet's  what  a 
baby  wants !  A  baby  kin't  hev  too  much  sleep  an'  a  grown-up 
person  kin't  hev  too  little,  hey  ?  They're  a  lazy  slinky  lot,  the 
young  men  o'  the  Province,  sleepin'  with  their  mouths  open, 
expectin'  johnny-cakes  to  fall  into  'em.  I  wonder  this  young 
man  here  don't  get  into  a  cradle  hisself.  He'd  be  es  much  use 
to  his  fellow-critters  es  makin'  picters,  I  do  allow.  This  life's 
a  battle,  I  allus  thinks,  an'  star-gazin'  ain't  the  way  to  sight  the 
enemy,  hey  ?  I  reckon  I'll  git  back  now,  Mrs.  Cattermole. 
There's  'nough  time  been  wasted  over  thet  limb  of  Satan.  Jest 
you  tell  Cattermole  what  I  say  'bout  him,  an'  if  ever  you  git 
durned  sick  an'  tired  feedin'  an  onthankful  lazybones,  es  you're 
bound  to  git,  sure  es  skunks,  jest  you  remember  Deacon  Hailey 
is  the  Christian  you're  lookin'  fur.  An'  don't  you  forgit  it !" 
And  very  solemnly  he  strode  without. 

Mrs.  Cattermole  lifted  her  hands  and  brought  them  down 
again  on  the  table  with  a  thump.  "The  tarnation  ole  fox!"  she 
cried,  "tryin'  to  bamboozle  me  with  tales  'bout  turnin'  tables. 
'Tain't  likely  es  a  table  is  goin'  to  dance  of  itself,  an'  tell  me 
'bout  Maria's  sickness.  Jest  you  come  here,  Matt,  an'  lay  your 
hands  alongside  o'  mine.  What's  thet  you're  doin'?" 

For  Matt  had  begun  pensively  adorning  the  hood  of  the 
cradle  by  means  of  a  burned  stick  he  had  pulled  from  the 
stove. 

"  It's  on'y  Ole  Hey,"  he  said,  reddening. 

"  Jest  you  leave  off  makin'  fun  o'  your  elders  an'  betters,"  she 
said,  sharply.  "  There  '11  be  plenty  of  work  fur  you  in  the 
paint-shop." 

There  was  plenty  of  work,  Matt  found,  in  numerous  other  di- 
rections, too.  Many  more  things  than  mechanical  wood-cutting 
did  the  boy  practise  at  Cattermole's  saw-mill.  To  begin  with, 
Mrs.  Cattermole's  apprehensions  were  justified  and  the  spring 
freshets  swept  away  the  dam,  and  so  Matt  was  set  to  work  haul- 
ing brushwood  and  gravel  and  logs  to  build  up  a  kind  of  breast- 
work. Cattermole  was  really  a  house-joiner  and  house-builder, 
so  Matt  acquired  cabinet-making,  decoration,  and  house-build- 
ing. His  farming  and  cattle-rearing  experience  was  also  con- 
siderably enlarged.  He  milked  the  cows,  looked  after  four 


92  THE    MASTER 

stage-horses  (driven  by  Mrs.  Cattermole's  brother)  and  thirty- 
six  sheep,  cut  firewood,  cleared  out  barns,  turned  churns,  hoed 
potatoes,  mowed  hay,  fed  fowls  and  pigs,  and  rocked  the  cradle, 
and,  in  the  interval  of  running  the  circular  and  up-and-down 
saws  in  the  mill,  worked  in  the  paint-shop  at  the  back,  graining 
and  scrolling  the  furniture  and  ornamenting  it  with  roses  and 
other  gorgeous  flowers,  sometimes  even  with  landscapes.  This 
was  his  only  opportunity  of  making  pictures,  for  recreation 
hours  he  had  none.  He  rose  at  four  in  the  morning  and  went 
to  bed  at  ten  at  night.  His  wages  were  his  food  and  clothes, 
both  left  off. 

Mrs.  Cattermole  made  his  garments  out  of  her  husband's  out- 
worn wardrobe,  itself  of  gray  homespun. 

But  the  hours  in  the  paint-shop  threw  their  aroma  over  all 
the  others  and  made  them  livable. 

And  Cattermole,  though  a  hard  was  not  a  harsh  taskmaster, 
and  had  gentle  flashes  of  jest  when  Mrs.  Cattermole  was  out  of 
ear-shot.  And,  though  winter  was  long,  yet  there  were  seasons 
of  delicious  sunshine,  when  the  blueberries  ripened  on  the  flats, 
or  the  apples  waxed  rosy  in  the  orchard ;  when  the  air  thrilled 
with  the  song  of  birds,  and  the  dawn  was  golden. 

In  one  of  these  seasons  of  hope  he  wrote  to  his  uncle  of  his 
father's  death  and  his  own  existence,  and  Cattermole  paid  the 
postage ;  an  ingenuous  letter  full  of  the  pathetic,  almost  incredi- 
ble ignorance  of  obscure  and  sequestered  youth,  and  inquiring 
what  chances  there  would  be  for  him  to  reap  fortune  by  paint- 
ing pictures  in  London.  He  addressed  the  letter — with  vague 
recollection  of  something  in  his  school  reading-book — to  Mr. 
Matthew  Strang,  Painter,  National  Gallery,  London. 

It  was  not  an  ill-written  letter  nor  an  ill-spelt.  Here  and 
there  the  orthography  was  original,  but  in  the  main  McTavit 
had  been  not  ineffectual,  and  there  were  fewer  traces  of  illiteracy 
about  the  epistle  than  might  have  been  imagined  from  Matt's 
talk.  But  in  Matt's  mind  the  written  and  the  spoken  were 
kept  as  distinct  as  printed  type  and  the  manuscript  alphabet ; 
they  ran  on  parallel  lines  that  never  met,  and  that  "  Amur'can  " 
should  be  spelled  "  American  "  seemed  no  more  contradictory 
than  that  "  throo  "  should  be  spelled  "  through."  The  grammar 


THE    APPRENTICE  93 

he  had  used  in  scholastic  exercises  was  not  for  everyday  wear ; 
it  was  of  a  ceremonious  dignity  that  suited  with  the  stateliness 
of  epistolary  communication.  Alas  !  For  all  the  carefulness 
of  the  composition,  his  uncle  of  the  National  Gallery  gave  no 
sign. 

Matt's  suspense  and  sorrow  dwindled  at  last  into  resignation, 
for  he  had  come  to  a  renewed  sense  of  religion.  As  Mrs.  Strang 
would  have  put  it,  he  had  found  grace.  There  were  a  few  pious 
books  and  tracts  about  the  Cattermole  establishment,  to  devour 
in  stolen  snatches  or  by  bartering  sleep  for  reading,  and  among 
these  dusty  treasures  he  lighted  on  The  Pilgrim's  Progress, 
with  quaint  wood-cuts.  In  the  moral  fervor  with  which  the 
dramatic  allegory  informed  him  Matt  felt  wickedness  an  impos- 
sibility henceforward ;  his  future  life  stretched  before  him 
white,  fleckless,  unstainable.  Meanness  or  falsehood  or  vicious- 
ness  could  never  touch  his  soul.  How  curiously  people  must 
be  constituted  who  could  knowingly  prefer  evil,  when  good 
thrilled  one  with  such  rapture,  bathed  one  in  such  peace  !  Al- 
ready he  felt  the  beatitude  of  the  New  Jerusalem.  The  pictures 
he  painted  should  be  good,  please  God.  They  should  exhibit 
the  baseness  of  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman,  castigate  the  town  of 
Carnal  Policy ;  he  would  uplift  the  eyes  of  the  wicked  to  the 
contemplation  of 'the  Shining  Ones.  Though,  after  all,  he  began 
to  ask  himself,  could  any  picture  equal  Bunyan's  book?  Was 
not  a  book  immeasurably  the  better  medium  of  expression  ? 
The  suspicion  was  strengthened  by  the  reading  of  a  dime  novel 
which  his  mistress's  brother,  the  stage-driver,  had  left  lying 
about.  It  was  the  first  unadulterated  novel  he  had  read,  and  the 
sensational  episodes  stirred  his  blood,  his  new-born  religious  en- 
thusiasm died.  He  loved  Mike  the  Bush-ranger,  who  was  the 
hero  of  the  novel.  Action,  strong,  self-dependent  action,  a  big 
personality — there  lay  the  admirable  in  life.  The  Christians 
and  Hopefuls  were  pale-blooded  figures  after  all,  and  unreal  at 
that.  In  actual  life  one  only  came  across  mimics  who  used 
their  language :  the  Deacon  Haileys  or  the  Abner  Preeps,  to 
whom  even  thieving  Tommy  were  preferable.  No  wonder  Mike 
had  been  driven  to  bush-ranging  !  What  a  pity  he  himself  had 
not  remained  in  his  forest  hut,  rebel  against  humanity,  king  of 


94  THE    MASTER 

the  woods !  Ah  !  and  how  inadequate  was  paint  to  express  the 
fulness  of  life ;  the  medium  was  too  childishly  simple.  At 
most  one  could  fix  a  single  scene,  a  single  incident,  and  that 
only  in  its  outside  aspect.  Books  palpitated  with  motion  and 
emotion.  He  set  to  work  to  write  a  dime  novel,  stealing  an 
hour  from  his  scanty  night.  He  made  but  slow  progress,  though 
he  began  with  an  exciting  episode  about  a  white  boy  besieged 
in  his  log-hut  by  a  party  of  Indians,  and  saved  by  the  sudden 
advent  of  a  couple  of  bears.  The  words  he  wrote  down  seemed 
a  paltry  rendition  of  his  thought  and  inner  vision,  they  were 
tame  and  scant  of  syllable.  He  discovered  that  his  literary 
palette  was  even  more  pitiful  than  his  pictorial.  Still  he  labored 
on,  for  the  goal  was  grand.  And,  despite  his  mental  divorce 
between  pronunciation  and  orthography,  his  spoken  English  im- 
proved imperceptibly  through  all  this  contact  with  literature. 

Then  one  wonderful  day — to  be  marked  with  a  white  stone 
and  yet  also  with  a  black — he  received  a  letter  from  England. 
All  his  artistic  ambition  flamed  up  furiously  again  as  he  broke 
the  seal: 

LONDON,  Limners'  Club. 

DEAR  NEPHEW, — Your  letter  gave  me  mingled  pain  and  pleasure.  I  was 
deeply  grieved  to  hear  of  the  sad  death  of  your  dear  father.  My  poor 
brother  had  not  written  to  me  nor  had  I  seen  him  sinde  his  marriage,  but  I 
knew  I  should  somehow  hear  of  it  if  anything  went  wrong  with  him.  I  am 
shocked  to  have  remained  ignorant  for  so  many  months  after  his  death.  I 
really  think  your  mother  should  have  let  me  know,  as  she  could  have  discov- 
ered my  address  through  my  wife's  relatives,  who  live  in  Halifax.  However,  I 
hope  God  has  given  her  strength  to  bear  the  blow.  And  now,  my  dear  Mat- 
thew, let  me  tell  you  your  letter  is  very  childish,  and  not  what  I  should  have 
expected  of  a  young  man  of  fourteen  as  you  describe  yourself.  It  is  very 
nice  to  amuse  yourself  by  painting  pictures ;  it  keeps  you  out  of  mischief. 
But  how  can  you  fancy  that  your  pictures  are  worth  any  money  ?  Why, 
painting  is  the  most  difficult  of  all  the  arts ;  it  requires  years  and  years  of 
study  under  great  masters,  and  it  costs  a  heap  of  money  to  pay  models — that 
is,  men  or  women  who  sit  or  stand  in  uncomfortable  positions  while  you  are 
painting  them.  No  picture  is-  any  good  that  is  done  without  models  ;  if  you 
wanted  to  paint  a  horse  you  would  have  to  hire  a  horse,  and  that  is  even 
more  expensive  than  hiring  a  man.  Otherwise  your  horse  would  be  all 
wrong.  Why,  a  friend  of  mine  painted  a  picture  of  a  forge,  and  he  had 
to  have  it  all  built  up  in  his  studio,  and  it  cost  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds. 
Studio !  The  word  reminds  me  that  an  artist  must  have  a  special  room  to 


THE    APPRENTICE  95 

work  in,  with  windows  on  top,  and  these  rooms  are  very  expensive.  London 
is  crammed  full  of  artists  who  have  had  all  these  advantages  and  yet  they 
are  starving.  The  pictures  that  you  do  now  everybody  would  laugh  at.  And 
where  would  you  get  the  money  for  frames  ?  A  nice  gold  frame  might  re- 
deem your  pictures,  but  gold  frames  are  dear.  No,  my  dear  Matthew,  you 
must  not  be  a  little  fool.  How  could  you,  a  poor  orphan,  think  of  coming  to 
London  ?  Why,  you  would  die  in  the  streets.  No ;  remain  where  you  are, 
and  thank  God  that  you  are  earning  your  clothes  and  your  keep  with  an  honest 
sawyer  in  a  land  of  peace  and  plenty,  and  are  not  a  burden  on  your  poor 
mother.  I  hope  you  will  listen  to  your  uncle  like  a  good  boy,  and  grow  up  to 
be  grateful  to  him  for  saving  you  from  starvation.  Believe  me, 
Your  affectionate  uncle, 

MATTHEW  STRANG. 

Matt's  tears  blistered  the  final  sheet  of  this  discouraging 
document.  His  roseate  visions  of  the  future  faded  to  cold 
gray,  his  heart  ached  with  a  sudden  sense  of  the  emptiness  of 
existence.  But  when  he  had  come  to  the  last  word  his  hand 
clinched  the  letter  fiercely.  A  great  glow  of  resolution  per- 
vaded his  being,  like  the  heat  that  returns  after  a  cold  douche. 
"  I  will  be  a  painter.  I  will,  I  will,  I  will !"  he  hissed.  And  he 
tore  up  the  embryo  of  the  dime  novel  and  wrote  again  to  his 
uncle : 

MY  DEAR  UNCLE, — How  good  you  are  to  write  to  me  and  tell  me  every- 
thing I  want  to  know.  Don't  be  afraid  that  I  will  starve  in  London,  dear 
uncle.  I  could  always  earn  my  living  there  in  the  fields  and  paint  late  at  night, 
but  I  won't  come  till  I  have  enough  money  for  lessons  and  models  and  a 
studio,  though  I  think  I  could  draw  horses  without  hiring  them.  I  have  al- 
ways been  very  good  at  animals.  Besides,  what  do  they  do  when  they  want 
bears,  as  the  geography  book  says  there  aren't  any  bears  in  England  ?  I 
could  live  in  the  attic,  and  knock  a  hole  in  the  roof.  My  mother  doesn't  need 
anything  from  me,  thank  God,  as  she  is  married  again  and  bears  the  blow 
well,  and  my  sister  Harriet  is  married  too,  so  you  see  it  will  be  easy  for  me 
to  save  up  money.  As  soon  as  my  apprenticeship  is  over  I  shall  go  on  to 
the  States,  where  the  greatest  fools  make  heaps  of  money,  and  so  in  a  few 
years,  please  God,  I  shall  be  able  to  come  over  like  you  did,  and  be  a  great 
artist  like  you.  Good-bye,  dear  uncle,  God  bless  you. 

From  your  loving  nephew,  MATTHEW  STRANG. 

P.S. — When  I  come  over  I  will  change  my  name  if  you  like,  so  as  not  to 
clash  with  yours.  I  know  you  would  not  like  it  if  people  thought  you  had 
done  my  pictures. 

P.P.S.— Besides,  my  real  name  now  might  be  Matthew  Hailey,  as  mother 
has  changed  hers  to  that. 


96  THE    MASTER 

This  letter  evoked  no  answer. 

When  Matt's  apprenticeship  was  at  an  end,  the  first  item  of  his 
programme  broke  down,  for  he  lacked  the  money  to  carry  him 
to  the  States,  so  he  had  to  stay  on  at  Cattermole's  farm  at  a 
petty  wage,  though  a  larger  than  Mrs.  Cattermole  was  aware  of, 
till  he  had  scraped  a  little  together.  And  then  an  accident  oc- 
curred that  bade  fair  to  dispose  of  all  the  other  items.  He  was 
at  work  in  the  saw-mill,  when  his  leg  got  jammed  between  the 
log  he  was  operating  upon  and  the  carriage  that  was  bearing  it 
towards  the  gang  of  up-and-down  saws.  There  would  not  be 
room  for  his  body  to  pass  between  the  gang  of  saws  and  the 
framework  that  held  them.  It  was  an  awful  instant.  He  cried 
out,  but  his  voice  was  lost  in  the  roar  of  the  water  and  the  clat- 
ter of  the  machinery.  Round  went  the  water-wheel,  the  carriage 
glided  along,  offering  inch  after  inch  of  the  log  to  the  cruel  teeth, 
and  Matt  was  drawn  steadily  with  it  towards  the  fatal  point. 
With  an  inspiration  he  drew  out  the  stout  string  he  always  car- 
ried in  his  pocket,  and,  making  a  noose,  threw  it  towards  a  lever. 
It  caught,  and  Matt  was  saved,  for  he  had  only  to  pull  this  lever 
to  close  the  gate  in  the  flume  and  shut  out  the  water.  When 
the  machinery  stopped  the  racket  ceased,  too,  and  Matt's  voice 
could  be  heard,  and  Cattermole  rushed  in  from  the  adjoining 
furniture  manufactory,  and,  knocking  away  the  dogs  at  the  end 
of  the  log,  lifted  it  and  released  the  prisoner,  and  then  made 
him  kneel  down  and  offer  a  prayer  for  his  salvation.  Matt's 
awakening  sense  of  logic  dimly  insinuated  that  this  was  thank- 
ing Providence  for  having  failed  to  mutilate  him,  but  the  atmos- 
phere of  Puritan  acceptance  in  which  he  moved  and  had  his 
being  asphyxiated  the  nascent  scepticism. 

Shortly  after,  Matt  bade  farewell  to  Cattermole  farm,  with  its 
complex  appurtenances  —  a  proceeding  which  Mrs.  Cattermole 
christened  "  onchristian  ingratitood."  She  declared  that  he 
ought  to  strip  off  the  clothes  she  had  made  him,  and  depart 
naked  as  he  had  come.  From  a  dim  corner  of  the  kitchen  Cat- 
termole's face  signalled,  "  Don't  mind  her.  God  bless  you." 

Softened  by  the  saw-mill  accident,  Matt  tramped  to  Cobequid 
to  see  his  mother  before  departing  for  Boston,  and  thence  ulti- 
mately for  England.  He  felt  guilty,  a  sort  of  Prodigal  Son, 


THE    APPRENTICE  97 

and  kept  assuring  himself  of  his  innocence  and  economy.  The 
third  Mrs.  Hailey  received  him  with  a  rapture  that  almost  sur- 
passed Billy's.  She  hugged  him  to  her  bosom  with  sobs  and 
told  him  her  grievances.  These  were  manifold,  but  seemed 
analyzable  into  four  categories :  one,  the  remissness  of  Harriet, 
whose  visits  were  rare,  and  whose  baby  had  bow-legs ;  two,  the 
naughtiness  of  the  children,  of  whom  Matt  had  always  been  the 
only  satisfactory  specimen  ;  three,  the  cruelty  of  their  step-father 
in  chastising  them  for  the  same  ;  four,  the  deacon's  breach  of 
contract  in  refusing  to  migrate  to  Halifax,  or  to  permit  her  to 
hold  Baptist  prayer -meetings.  Her  black  eyes  flashed  with 
strange  fire  when  she  spoke  of  her  new  husband's  crimes  and 
derelictions.  And  there  was  the  old  dreaded  hysteria  in  her 
threats  to  throw  up  the  position.  Evidently  remarriage  had  not 
made  her  happy,  he  thought  with  added  tenderness.  Perhaps 
nothing  could.  He  shuddered  at  his  own  deeper  perception  of 
unhappiness  implanted  in  temperament  and  finding  nutriment 
in  any  conditions. 

In  conclusion,  she  besought  her  boy — the  only  person  in  the 
world  who  loved  her,  the  only  person  to  whom  she  could  tell 
her  troubles — to  go  to  Halifax  instead  of  the  States.  It  was 
far  nearer,  and  money  could  be  made  just  as  easily.  Her  folks 
lived  at  Halifax,  and  though  he  must  net  dream  of  seeking 
their  assistance,  for  they  had  been  very  bad  to  her,  mewing  her 
up  strictly  so  that  she  had  been  forced  to  elope  with  her  poor 
Davie,  still  it  would  be  a  consolation  to  know  that  he  was  near 
her  own  people,  likewise  not  far  from  herself,  in  case  of  anything 
happening  to  either  of  them.  Perhaps  she  would  persuade  her 
husband  to  move  there,  after  all — who  knew?  Or  she  might 
come  there  herself  and  stay  with  him,  for  a  week  or  two  at  any 
rate,  and  meantime  he  should  write  to  her  about  the  dear  *old 
town.  Moved  by  her  lack  of  reproaches  and  by  her  misery, 
and  impressed  into  his  olden  subjugation  to  the  handsome,  mas- 
terful woman,  Matt  acquiesced.  Perhaps  his  main  motives  were 
the  comparative  cheapness  of  the  journey  and  the  reinflamma- 
tion  of  his  childish  curiosity  concerning  the  gay  city. 

It  was  Saturday,  but  Matt  suffered  such  tortures  under  the 
moral  but  mumbled  exordiums  of  "  Ole  Hey,"  of  which  his  un- 

7 


08  THE    MASTER 

accustomed  ear  took  in  less  than  ever,  that  he  determined  to 
depart  on  the  Monday.  The  deacon  seemed  to  have  aged  con- 
siderably, his  beard  was  matted  and  thick,  and  his  dicky  was 
stained  with  tobacco-juice.  For  the  rest,  Matt  discovered  that 
most  of  the  children  were  employed  about  the  farm  or  the  works, 
and  that  they  had  ceased  to  go  to  school,  the  deacon  having 
converted  Ruth  into  a  school-mistress  when  she  could  be  spared 
from  keeping  the  books  of  his  tannery  and  grist-mill.  Ruth 
herself  he  met  with  indifference  that  the  stateliness  of  her  un- 
expectedly tall  presence  did  nothing  to  thaw.  He  was  surprised 
to  hear  from  Billy,  whose  bed  he  shared  that  night,  and  who 
was  more  greedy  to  hear  Matt's  adventures  than  to  talk,  that 
they  were  all  very  fond  of  her,  and  that  she  could  still  romp 
heartily.  But  Ruth  had  gradually  grown  shadowy  to  his  imag- 
ination beside  his  burning  dreams  of  Art,  and  the  sight  of  her 
seemed  to  add  the  last  touch  of  insubstantiality  to  her  image. 
And  yet,  in  the  boredom  of  the  Sunday  services,  with  his  eye 
roving  restlessly  about  the  severe,  unlovely  meeting-house  in 
search  of  distractions,  he  could  not  but  be  conscious  that  she 
was  the  sweetest  and  sedatest  figure  in  the  village  choir  that 
sang  and  flirted  in  the  rising  tiers  of  the  gallery  over  the  vesti- 
bule ;  and  when  Deacon  Hailey,  tapping  his  tuning-fork  on  the 
rails,  imitated  its  note  with  a  rasping  croak,  Matt  had  a  flash  of 
sympathy  with  the  divined  inner  life  of  the  girl  in  this  discord- 
ant environment.  He  told  her  briefly  of  his  plans — to  save  up 
enough  money  to  get  to  his  uncle  in  London,  who  would  doubt- 
less put  him  in  the  way  of  studying  Art  seriously.  She  said  she 
wished  she  had  something  as  fine  to  live  and  work  for ;  still  she 
was  busy  enough,  what  with  book-keeping  and  teaching  school, 
as  she  put  it  smilingly.  Their  parting,  like  their  meeting,  was 
awkward.  Self-consciousness  and  shyness  had  come  into  their 
simple  relation.  Neither  dared  take  the  initiative  of  a  kiss, 
which  for  the  rest  was  a  rare  caress  in  Cobequid  save  between 
children  and  lovers.  Relatives  shook  hands  ;  even  women  were 
not  free  of  one  another's  lips.  And  for  the  lad's  part,  timidity 
was  all  he  felt  in  the  presence  of  this  sweet  graceful  stranger. 
Only  at  the  last  moment,  when  she  handed  him  a  keepsake  in 
the  shape  of  a  prize  copy  of  the  Arabian  Nights  her  music- 


A    WANDER-YEAR  99 

mistress  had  given  her,  did  their  looks  meet  as  of  yore,  and  then 
it  was  more  the  young  painter  than  the  old  playmate  who  was 
touched  by  the  earnest  radiance  of  her  eyes  and  the  flicker  of 
rose  across  the  delicate  fairness  of  her  cheek.  He  made  a  little 
sketch  of  her  in  return,  and  sent  it  her  from  Halifax. 

When  he  was  on  his  way  he  opened  the  gilt-bound  volume 
and  read  on  the  fly-leaf : 

To  MATT 

From  Ruth. 

God  make  you  a  great  artist. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
A     WANDER- YEAR 

HALIFAX  exceeded  Matt's  expectations,  and  gave  him  a  higher 
opinion  of  his  mother.  For  the  first  time  his  soul  received  the 
shock  of  a  great  town,  or  what  was  a  great  town  to  him.  The 
picturesque  bustle  enchanted  him.  The  harbor,  with  its  im- 
mense basin  and  fiords,  swarming  with  ships  and  boats,  was  an 
inexhaustible  pageant,  and  sometimes  across  the  green  water 
came  softened  music  from  a  giant  iron-clad.  High  in  the  back- 
ground of  the  steep  city  that  sat  throned  between  its  waters 
rose  forests  of  spruce  and  fir.  From  the  citadel  on  the  hill 
black  cannon  saluted  the  sunrise,  and  Sambro  Head  and  Sher- 
brooke  Tower  shot  rays  of  warning  across  the  night.  The 
streets  throbbed  with  traffic,  and  were  vivid  with  the  blues  and 
reds  of  artillery  and  infantry ;  and  the  nigger  and  the  sailor 
contributed  exotic  romance.  On  the  wharves  of  Water  Street, 
which  were  lined  with  old  shanties  and  dancing-houses,  the 
black  men  sawed  cord-wood,  huge  piles  of  which  mounted  sky- 
ward, surrounded  by  boxes  of  smoked  herrings.  On  one  of 
the  wharves  endless  quintals  of  codfish  lay  a-drying  in  the  sun. 
And  when  the  great  tide,  receding,  exposed  the  tall  wooden 
posts,  like  the  long  legs  of  some  many-legged  marine  monster, 
covered  with  black  and  white  barnacles  and  slime  of  a  beautiful 


100  THE    MASTER 

arsenic  green,  the  embryonic  artist  found  fresh  enchantment  in 
this  briny,  fishy,  muddy  water-side.  Then,  too,  the  Government 
House  was  the  biggest  and  most  wonderful  building  Matt  had 
ever  seen,  and  the  fish,  fruit,  and  meat  markets  were  a  confusion 
of  pleasant  noises. 

In  the  newly  opened  park  on  the  "Point"  the  wives  of  the 
English  officials  and  officers — grand  dames,  who  set  the  tone  of 
the  city — strolled  and  rode  in  beautiful  costumes.  Matt  thought 
that  the  detached  villas  in  which  they  lived,  with  imposing 
knockers  and  circumscribing  hedges  instead  of  fences,  were  the 
characteristic  features  of  great  American  cities.  He  loved  to 
watch  the  young  ladies  riding  into  the  cricket-ground  on  their 
well-groomed  horses ;  beautiful,  far-away  princesses,  whose  ex- 
quisite figures,  revealed  by  their  riding-habits,  fascinated  rather 
than  shocked  his  eye,  accustomed  though  it  was  to  the  Puritan 
modesty  of  ill-fitting  dresses,  the  bulky  wrappings  of  a  village 
where  to  go  out "  in  your  shape  "  was  to  betray  impure  instincts. 
He  would  peer  into  the  enclosure  with  a  strange,  wistful  long- 
ing, eager  to  catch  stray  music  of  their  speech,  silver  ripples  of 
their  laughter.  He  wondered  if  he  would  ever  talk  to  such  celes- 
tial creatures,  for  whom  life  went  so  smooth  and  so  fair.  What 
charming  pictures  they  made  in  the  lovely  summer  days,  when 
the  officers  played  against  the  club,  and  they  sat  on  the  sward 
drinking  tea  under  the  shady  trees,  in  white  dresses,  with  white 
lace  parasols  held  over  their  softly  glinting  hair  to  shield  the 
shining  purity  of  their  complexions — a  refreshing  contrast  of 
cool  color  with  the  scarlet  of  the  officers'  uniforms.  Some- 
times the  wistful  eyes  of  the  boy  grew  dim  with  sad,  delicious 
tears.  How  inaccessible  was  all  this  beautiful  life  whose  gra- 
cious harmonies,  whose  sweet  refinements,  some  subtle  instinct 
divined  and  responded  to  !  At  moments  he  felt  he  could  almost 
barter  his  dreams  of  Art  to  move  in  these  heavenly  spheres, 
among  these  dainty  creatures  whose  every  gesture  was  grace, 
whose  every  tone  was  ravishment.  There  was  one  girl,  the  most 
bewitching  of  all,  whom  he  only  saw  in  the  saddle,  so  that  in  his 
image  of  her,  as  in  his  sketches  of  her,  she  was  always  on  a 
beautiful  chestnut  horse,  which  she  sat  with  matchless  ease 
and  decision ;  a  tall,  slender  girl,  with  yellow-brown  hair  that 


A    WANDER-YEAJ  ' '.  iCfi 

lay  soft  and  fluffy  about  the  forehead  of  her  lovely  English 
face.  Her  favorite  canter  was  along  the  beach-road ;  and  here, 
before  he  had  found  work,  he  would  loiter  in  the  hope  of  see- 
ing her.  How  he  longed — yet  dreaded — that  she  might  some 
day  perceive  his  presence ;  sometimes  so  high  flew  his  secret 
audacious  dream  that  in  imagination  he  patted  her  horse's 
glossy  neck. 

In  such  an  exhilarating  atmosphere  the  boy  felt  great  im- 
pulses surge  within  him.  But,  alas !  the  seamy  side  of  great 
cities  was  borne  in  on  him  also.  He  had  a  vile  lodging  in 
the  central  slums,  near  the  roof  of  a  tall  tenement-house  that 
tottered  between  two  groggeries,  and  here  drunken  wharfingers 
and  sailors  and  negro  wenches  and  Irishmen  reeled  and  swore. 
To  a  lad  brought  up  in  godly  Cobequid,  where  drunkenness 
was  spoken  of  with  bated  breath,  this  unquestionable  suprem- 
acy of  Satan  was  both  shocking  and  unsettling.  Nevertheless, 
Matt  spent  the  first  days  in  a  trance  of  delight,  for — apart 
from  and  above  all  other  wonders  —  there  were  picture -shops 
in  the  town ;  and  the  works  of  O'Donovan,  the  local  celeb- 
rity, were  marked  at  twenty,  or  thirty,  and  even  fifty  dol- 
lars apiece.  They  were  sea  -  paintings  of  considerable  merit, 
that  excited  Matt's  admiration  without  quite  overwhelming 
him.  On  the  strength  of  O'Donovan's  colossal  prices,  Matt 
invested  some  of  his  scanty  stock  of  dollars  in  a  kit  of  paint 
at  a  fairy  shop,  where  shone  collapsible  tubes  of  oil-color, 
such  as  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  delightful  brushes  and 
undreamed-of  easels  and  canvases.  He  also  bought  two 
yellow-covered  books,  one  entitled  Artistic  Anatomy,  and  the 
other  Practical  House  Decoration,  which  combined  to  oppress 
him  with  his  ignorance  of  the  human  form  divine  and  the 
house  beautiful,  and  became  his  bed-fellows,  serving  to  raise 
his  pillow.  His  conceit  fell  to  zero  when  he  saw  a  portrait 
by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  among  the  collection  in  the  Session 
Hall. 

After  a  depressing  delay,  mitigated  only  by  the  sight  of  his 
fair  horsewoman,  he  found  work  in  a  furniture  shop  at  the  top 
of  an  old  rambling  warehouse  that  was  congested  with  broken 
litter  and  old  pianos.  The  proprietor  not  only  dealt  in  debris, 


f 02*  THE    MASTER 

but  bought  new  furniture  and  had  it  painted  in  the  loft. 
Matt  received  six  dollars  a  week,  half  of  which  he  saved  for 
his  English  campaign.  At  first  he  had  the  atelier  to  himself, 
but  as  the  proprietor's  business  increased  he  was  given  a  sub- 
ordinate—  a  full-grown  Frenchman,  rather  shorter  than  him- 
self, who  swore  incomprehensibly  and  was  restive  under  Matt's 
surveyorship.  By  this  time  Matt  had  learned  something  of  the 
wisdom  of  the  serpent,  so  he  treated  his  man  to  liquor.  After 
the  Frenchman  had  got  drunk  several  times  at  the  expense  of 
his  sober  superior,  he  discovered  that  Matt  was  his  long-lost 
brother,  and  peace  reigned  in  the  paint-shop. 

But  Matt  did  not  remain  long  in  Halifax.  The  Frenchman's 
jabber  of  the  mushroom  millionaires  of  the  States  (though  he 
failed  to  explain  his  own  distance  from  these  golden  regions) 
fired  Matt's  imagination,  and  he  resolved  to  go  to  Boston  in 
accordance  with  his  original  programme.  He  considered  he 
had  sufficiently  studied  his  mother's  wishes,  and  her  letters  had 
become  too  incoherent  for  attention.  It  was  a  pain,  not  a  pleas- 
ure, to  receive  them.  He  was  not  surprised  to  learn  from  Billy's 
letters  that  domestic  broils  were  frequent,  and  that  the  deacon's 
proverbial  wisdom  did  not  avail  to  cope  with  Mrs.  Strang's 
threats  of  suicide.  It  was  only  poor  Ruth's  girlish  sweetness 
that  could  bring  calm  into  these  household  cyclones. 

And  so  one  fine  evening  Matt  set  sail  for  the  city  of  culture 
and  "  Croesuses."  Everything  seemed  of  good  augury.  Though 
the  expense  of  the  trip  had  wellnigh  eaten  up  his  savings,  his 
heart  was  as  light  as  his  pocket.  He  was  going  only  to  the 
States,  but  he  felt  that,  in  quitting  his  native  soil,  the  voyage  to 
London,  the  temple  of  Art,  and  to  his  uncle,  its  high-priest,  had 
begun.  The  moon  shone  over  the  twinkling  harbor  like  a  great 
gold  coin,  and  as  the  vessel  spread  its  canvas  wings  and  glided 
out  of  the  confusion  of  shipping,  Matt  felt  that  its  name  was 
not  the  least  happy  omen  in  this  auspicious  moment.  The  ship 
was  named  The  Enterprise. 

That  night,  finding  some  confusion  about  the  distribution  of 
bunks,  Matt  lay  down  on  deck,  with  Artistic  Anatomy  and 
practical  House  Decoration  for  his  pillows,  and  slept  the 


A    WANDER-YEAR  103 

sleep  of  the  weary,  tempered  by  a  farrago  of  inconsequent 
dreams. 

When  he  woke  up  next  morning  he  rubbed  his  eyes  from 
more  than  sleepiness.  Halifax  seemed  still  to  confront  his 
vision — its  hills,  its  forts,  its  wharves,  George  Island,  the  Point, 
and  the  great  harbor  in  which  The  Enterprise  rocked  gently. 
What  was  this  hallucination  ? 

He  soon  discovered  that  it  was  reality.  There  had  been  a 
head-wind  in  the  night,  and  the  ship  had  dropped  her  anchor 
in  the  harbor  for  safety. 

The  incident  was  typical.  In  the  course  of  the  voyage  Matt 
learned  to  know  the  captain — a  grizzled  old  sea-dog  with  the 
heart  of  a  bitch.  The  ship  was  his  own,  and  he  sailed  it  him- 
self to  save  expense  and  check  dishonesty.  There  is  a  proverb 
about  saving  a  pennyworth  of  tar,  and  Captain  Bludgeon  illus- 
trated it.  No  man  was  ever  so  unfitted  to  walk  the  quarter- 
deck. His  idea  of  navigation  was  to  hug  the  coast,  and  he 
seized  every  pretext  for  putting  in  at  creeks  or  ports  and 
anchoring  for  the  night,  when  the  crew  would  go  ashore  and 
come  back  incapable.  The  schooner  itself  was  an  old  tub,  a 
cumbrous,  dingey-like  craft,  but  sound  in  timber.  Matt  had  a 
rough  time,  though  the  reading  of  the  Arabian  Nights  made 
the  voyage  enchanted.  The  passengers  were  a  plebeian  crowd — 
a  score  of  women,  mostly  servant  -  girls  and  single,  fifteen  men 
emigrating  to  the  States,  and  a  few  children.  There  were  only 
six  bunks.  The  mate  had  given  up  his  state-room — which  Matt 
was  to  have  shared — to  some  of  the  women.  Those  who  could 
not  secure  bunks  herded  dressed  in  a  big  field  bed,  which  also 
accommodated  some  of  the  men,  likewise  sleeping  in  their 
clothes.  For  toilet  operations  all  the  women  resorted  to  the 
state-room,  which  held  a  mirror  and  washing  apparatus.  Eti- 
quette was  free-and-easy.  The  food  was  horrible,  the  cook's 
menus  being  almost  ingenious  in  their  unpalatableness.  Fort- 
unately most  of  the  passengers  were  sick  already.  Matt  had 
no  immunity.  All  the  pangs  of  his  first  pipe  were  repeated, 
without  the  moral  qualms  which  rationalized  those.  He  con- 
tinued to  sleep  on  deck  as  often  as  he  could,  making  friends 
with  the  stars ;  when  the  night  was  too  chilly  he  couched  or. 


104  THE    MASTER 


the  wood-pile  near  the  stove.  Thus  was  he  spared  licentious 
spectacles,  and  his  innocence  was  granted  a  little  longer  term. 
They  passed  the  signals  and  flag-staff  of  Sable  Point  safely, 
Captain  Bludgeon's  face  as  white  as  the  breakers  that  girdled  its 
barren  rock;  then,  instead  of  making  a  bee-line  for  Boston,  the 
captain  fetched  a  semicircle,  following  the  New  England  coast 
line,  and  holding  on  to  the  apron-strings  of  his  mother  earth. 
Such  voyaging  he  conceived  to  be  sure,  if  slow  ;  mistakenly 
enough,  considering  the  iron-bound  character  of  the  coast. 

The  passengers — once  they  had  got  over  their  sickness — did 
not  complain,  for  they  had  the  leisure  of  poverty,  and  the  pros- 
pect of  indefinite  board  and  lodging  was  not  unpleasing,  and 
their  frequent  stopping-places  diversified  the  monotony  of  the 
voyage  with  little  excursions.  One  night,  having  been  driven 
into  harbor  by  a  capful  of  wind,  they  witnessed  the  torch-light 
fishing.  It  was  a  scene  that  set  Matt's  fingers  itching  for  the 
brush — waving  torches  glittering  on  the  water  from  dozens  of 
boats,  and  lighting  up  the  tanned  faces  of  the  fishers,  who  were 
scooping  up  the  herrings  with  nets.  Every  detail  gave  him  the 
keenest  joy — the  wavering  refractions  in  the  water,  the  leaping 
silver  of  the  fish  touched  with  gold  flame,  the  sombre  mystery 
of  sea  and  sky  above  and  around.  The  night  was  made  even 
more  memorable,  for  some  of  the  girls  who  had  landed  brought 
back  in  giggling  triumph  many  bundles  of  cured  herrings,  which 
they  had  pilfered  from  an  unguarded  smoke-house,  and  these 
they  generously  distributed,  so  that  the  whole  ship  supped  de- 
liciously  in  defiance  of  the  cook. 

On  another  occasion — in  the  afternoon  at  high-water — Matt 
and  about  a  score  of  the  passengers,  the  majority  females,  went 
on  shore  to  pick  gray-beards,  as  they  called  the  gray  cranber- 
ries that  grew  in  the  swamps.  And  they  tarried  so  long  that 
when  they  came  back  to  the  boat  they  found  the  tide  turned, 
and  two  hundred  yards  of  mud  between  them  and  the  water. 
One  of  the  men  tried  the  mud,  and  sank  to  the  knees  in  slimy 
batter.  In  the  end  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  launch  the 
empty  boat,  and  then  wade  to  it.  The  launching  was  easy,  the 
boat  slipping  along  as  on  grease,  but  the  sequel  was  boisterous. 
Jack  Floss,  a  strapping  Anglo-Saxon  with  a  blond  mustache  and 


A    WANDER-YEAR  105* 

a  devil-may-care  humor,  set  the  example  of  giving  a  woman  a 
pick-a-back  to  save  her  skirts,  and  the  few  other  men  followed 
suit,  returning  again  and  again  for  fresh  freight.  The  air  re- 
sounded with  hysterical  giggling  and  screaming  as  the  women 
frantically  clutched  their  bearers,  some  of  whom  extorted  un- 
reluctant  kisses  under  jocose  threats  of  tumbling  their  burdens 
over  into  the  mud.  One  or  two  actually  carried  out  their  threats, 
by  involuntarily  stepping  suddenly  into  a  gutter  worn  by  the 
rains  and  sinking  up  to  the  waist,  but  the  mishaps  abated  no 
jot  of  the  madcap  merriment  —  it  rather  augmented  the  row- 
diness  as  the  women  were  hauled  from  their  mud-baths.  For 
his  part  Matt  waded  warily,  more  conscious  of  the  responsi- 
bility than  of  the  fun,  for  he  was  doing  his  duty  manfully,  as 
became  a  lad  stout,  sturdy,  and  sixteen.  His  second  burden 
was  a  slim,  pretty  servant-girl  named  Priscilla,  and  when  he 
was  depositing  her,  speckless,  in  the  boat,  she  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  the  embrace  to  kiss  him  in  hearty  gratitude.  Matt 
dropped  her  like  a  hot  coal.  He  felt  scorched  and  flustered, 
and  had  a  bewildered  moment  of  burning  blushes  ere  he 
ploughed  his  way  back  to  rescue  another  of  the  distressed 
damsels.  That  sudden  kiss  was  an  epoch  in  his  growth.  A 
discomfort  at  the  time,  the  after-taste  of  it  lent  new  warmth 
to  his  interest  in  the  royal  amours  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  In 
his  dreams  he  bore  delectable  Eastern  princesses  across  perilous 
magic  marshes,  and  their  gratitude  found  him  stockish  no  longer. 
The  next  episode  in  this  curious  creeping  voyage  was  super 
ficially  more  critical  for  Matt.  A  sudden  gale  upset  all  poor 
Captain  Bludgeon's  calculations.  He  was  near  shore  as  usual, 
and  tried  to  beat  into  harbor  almost  under  bare  poles  ;  but  the 
haven  was  of  a  dangerous  entrance,  narrow  and  choked  in  the 
throat  by  a  rock,  and  no  one  on  board  had  sufficient  seaman- 
ship to  get  the  schooner  in.  The  mate  advised  abandoning 
the  hope  of  harbor,  and  setting  the  jib  and  the  jib-foresail  to 
make  leeway.  The  captain  swore  by  everything  unholy  he 
would  not  go  a  cable  farther  out  to  sea.  The  night  was  closing 
in,  but,  the  wind  dying  away,  The  Enterprise  anchored  outside 
the  harbor.  But  in  the  night  the  wind  sprang  up  from  the 
opposite  quarter  fiercer  than  ever,  and  the  vessel  dragged  her 


106  THE    MASTER 

anchors  and  drove  towards  the  rock  that  squatted  on  guard  at 
the  mouth  of  the  harbor,  pitching  helplessly  in  the  shifting 
troughs.  In  the  inky  blackness  great  swamping  waves  carried 
off  her  boats,  her  top-sails,  and  both  houses.  Her  anchors  were 
left  behind  her,  and  part  of  the  bulwarks  was  likewise  torn 
away.  Fortunately  her  cables  held  out  as  she  drove  bumping 
along,  though  they  did  not  moderate  her  pace  sufficiently  to 
prevent  her  keel  being  partially  torn  away  when  she  bumped 
upon  a  reef.  Yet  she  jolted  over  the  reef  and  drifted  blindly 
on  and  on,  none  knew  whither. 

Within  the  schooner  the  scene  was  almost  as  wild  as  with- 
out. The  women's  screams  rivalled  those  of  the  wind  ;  the 
distracted  creatures  ran  up  and  down  the  companion-ladder, 
getting  in  the  way  of  the  crew ;  the  captain  went  below  to 
quiet  them — and  did  not  return.  Apparently  he  preferred  the 
society  of  his  own  sex.  The  mate,  thus  left  in  command, 
boarded  up  the  companion-way  to  stop  the  aimless  scurrying, 
and  told  off  some  of  the  crew  to  help  him  unload  the  cargo, 
which  consisted  of  plaster,  and  to  pitch  it  overboard.  Matt 
and  the  cook  bore  a  hand  in  the  work.  Not  daring  to  unhatch 
for  fear  of  being  water-logged,  they  had  to  pass  the  plaster 
through  the  lazaret. 

Jack  Floss  did  his  best  to  comfort  the  females  by  profanities. 
He  laughed,  and  hoped  the  Lord  would  damn  the  old  hulk, 
whose  fleas  were  big  enough  to  swim  ashore  on.  His  cool 
blasphemies  calmed  some,  but  others  plainly  regarded  him  as  a 
Jonah.  Matt  was  half  perturbed,  half  fascinated  by  this  uncon- 
ventional vagabond ;  of  the  real  danger  his  own  buoyancy  made 
light. 

When  the  morning  light  came  at  last,  it  showed  that  they 
had  providentially  skirted  the  grim  rock  and  were  drifting  into 
harbor.  The  deck  was  covered  with  debris  and  with  sand,  which 
the  ship  had  stirred  and  raked  up  in  her  dragging  progress 
along  the  shallow  waters.  Piles  of  grit  had  accumulated  in  the 
corners,  and  the  waves  on  which  she  tossed  were  discolored 
with  dirt.  Very  soon  she  passed  a  little  island  where  a  brig  lay 
moored ;  and  with  great  difficulty — for  the  sea  was  still  running 
high — the  brig  sent  her  a  hawser  and  made  her  fast.  Then  they 


A    WANDER-YEAR  107 

were  enabled  to  realize  further  the  extent  of  their  luck,  for  the 
harbor  was  strewn  with  wreckage.  No  fewer  than  seven  schoon- 
ers had  gone  down,  and  only  two  men  had  been  saved.  The 
harbor  was  alive  with  boats  looking  for  the  dead.  Captain 
Bludgeon,  bestriding  his  desolate  quarter-deck,  congratulated 
himself  on  his  seamanship.  He  arranged  with  a  tug  to  draw 
The  Enterprise  back  to  St.  John,  New  Brunswick,  for  repairs. 
The  few  impatient  passengers  who  could  afford  to  pay  an  extra 
fee  went  on  to  Boston  by  the  rescuing  brig,  but  the  majority 
stuck  to  The  Enterprise  and  Captain  Bludgeon,  who  was  com- 
pelled to  board  and  lodge  them  at  a  cheap  water-side  hotel  while 
the  schooner  was  laid  up.  Thus  were  the  fates  kind  to  these 
waifs  on  the  ocean  of  life,  who  enjoyed  the  holiday  after  their 
manner — plain  living  and  high  jinks — and  had  no  need  of 
Satan,  or  even  Jack  Floss,  to  find  mischief  for  their  idle  hands 
to  do. 

Matt,  however,  was  not  of  the  roysterers.  He  had  remained 
with  The  Enterprise,  of  course,  not  having  the  money  to  ex- 
change ;  but  the  scenery  of  a  new  town — and  that  a  hill-girt 
town  like  St.  John,  with  a  cathedral,  a  silver  water,  and  a  forest 
afire  with  flowers — was  always  sufficient  business  for  him.  The 
cathedral  was  not  so  colossal  as  it  had  loomed  to  his  childish 
fancy  through  McTavit's  reminiscences.  After  a  day  or  two 
Matt  found  an  even  more  delightful  occupation.  He  happened 
to  remark  to  Jack  Floss  that  the  ceiling  of  the  hotel  sitting- 
room  would  be  all  the  better  for  a  little  ornamentation,  and  that 
worthy  straightway  sought  out  the  proprietor,  a  gentleman  of 
Scotch  descent,  and  expressed  himself  so  picturesquely  that 
Matt  was  offered  a  dollar  to  make  the  ceiling  worthy  of  being 
sat  under  by  artistic  souls  like  Jack  Floss.  Thereupon  Jack 
Floss  and  everybody  else,  except  Matt,  were  turned  out  of  the 
sitting-room,  and  the  boy,  guided  by  his  Practical  House  Deco- 
ration in  the  mixing  of  colors  and  the  preparation  of  plaster? 
stood  on  the  ladder  and  stencilled  one  of  his  imaginative  med- 
leys. His  fellow-passengers  were  not  permitted  to  see  it  till 
it  was  ready,  but  speculation  was  rife,  and  the  rumor  of  its 
glories  had  spread  about  the  water-side,  and  on  show-day  the 
room  was  packed  with  motley  spectators,  gazing  reverently  heav- 


108  THE    MASTER 

enward  as  at  fireworks,  some  breaking  out  into  rapturous  ex- 
clamations that  made  the  boy  more  hot  and  uncomfortable  than 
even  the  damsel's  kiss  had  done.  He  was  glad  he  was  almost 
invisible,  squeezed  into  a  corner  by  the  crowd.  And  despite 
his  discomfort,  aggravated  by  a  crick  in  the  back  of  the  neck, 
due  to  painting  with  his  hand  over  his  head,  there  was  a  subtle 
pleasure  for  him  in  his  fellow -passengers'  facile  recognition  of 
the  torch-light  fishing  scene  which  formed  the  centre  of  the 
decorations.  The  hotel  bar  did  good  business  that  day. 

Just  before  The  Enterprise  started  again  for  Boston  a  man 
came  to  see  the  ceiling,  and  immediately  offered  the  artist  a  com- 
mission. There  was  a  paint-shop  in  the  railway-carriage  works, 
and  Matt  could  have  a  situation  just  vacant  there  at  ten  dollars 
a  week.  Dazzled  by  these  fabulous  terms,  which  seemed  almost 
to  realize  his  ambition  at  a  bound,  Matt  accepted ;  and  The 
Enterprise,  patched  up  and  refitted,  sailed  without  him.  A  few 
hours  later  he  discovered  that  it  had  also  sailed  without  Pris- 
cilla,  that  seductive  young  person  having  found  a  berth  as  cham- 
ber-maid in  the  hotel.  She  came  into  Matt's  room  to  tidy  up, 
and  expressed  her  joy  at  the  prospect  of  looking  after  his  com- 
fort. But  the  boy  told  her  he  must  seek  less  comfortable  quar- 
ters, and,  despite  her  protests  and  her  offers  to  help  him  tem- 
porarily, he  departed  for  cheaper  lodgings,  leaving  behind  him 
a  perfunctory  promise  to  call  and  see  her  soon.  Jack  Floss, 
whom  Matt  gratefully  regarded  as  the  architect  of  his  fortunes, 
had  half  a  mind  to  stay  behind,  too.  He  said  he  wanted  to  go 
under,  and  The  Enterprise  didn't  seem  to  have  any  luck.  But 
at  the  last  moment  he  found  that  he  could  not  desert  the  ladies. 

Matt  was  more  sorry  to  part  from  him  than  from  Priscilla ; 
there  was  something  in  the  young  man's  devil-may-care  man- 
ner that  appealed  to  the  germs  of  Bohemianism  in  the  artistic 
temperament.  The  young  artist  had,  however,  an  unpleasant 
reminder  of  the  defects  of  the  Bohemian  temperament,  for 
Jack  Floss  was  forced  to  confess  that  he  had  lost  the  copy  of 
the  Arabian  Nights  which  he  had  persuaded  Matt  to  lend  him 
to  beguile  the  tedium  of  the  days  of  waiting.  The  boy  was 
grievously  distressed  by  the  loss ;  it  seemed  an  insult  to  Ruth 
Hailey  and  a  misprision  of  her  kindly  wishes.  However,  it 


A    WANDER-YEAR  109 

was  no  use  crying  over  spilled  milk,  and  Jack  Floss  slightly  as- 
suaged his  chagrin  by  fishing  out  from  among  his  miscellaneous 
effects  a  volume  of  Shelley  in  small  type,  and  another — with  an 
even  more  microscopic  text — containing  the  complete  works  of 
Lord  Byron.  Both  books  opened  as  by  long  usage  at  their  most 
erotic  pages.  Through  these  ivory  gates  the  boy  passed  into  the 
great  world  of  romantic  poetry.  Whole  stanzas  remained  in  his 
memory.  The  brain  that  had  refused  to  retain  Bible  verses, 
spending  hours  in  quest  of  the  tiniest,  absorbed  the  sensuous 
images  of  the  poets  without  effort ;  he  fell  asleep  with  them  on 
his  lips. 

In  the  railway-carriage  shop  —  a  spacious  saloon  as  full  of 
painters  as  an  atelier  in  the  Quartier  Latin — Matt  was  allowed 
a  free  hand  on  great  canvases  that,  when  filled  with  flowers  and 
landscapes,  were  nailed  to  the  roofs  of  the  carriages  by  electro- 
plated pins.  He  also  decorated  the  wooden  panels  with  scroll- 
work and  foliage,  and  gilded  the  lettering  outside  the  doors. 
Thus  was  the  citizen  fed  on  art  at  every  turn,  standing  under 
his  ceiling,  or  sitting  on  his  chair,  or  lying  on  his  sofa,  or  travel- 
ling on  his  railway.  Art  is  notoriously  elevating ;  but  as  the 
depraved  quarters  of  the  town  continued  to  flourish,  the  art 
must  have  been  bad. 

Matt's  career  in  the  paint -shop  was  neither  so  long  nor  so 
pleasant  as  he  had  anticipated.  His  pictures  did  not  please  his 
fellow-artists  as  much  as  his  employers,  and  he  became  the  butt 
of  the  place.  A  series  of  impalpable  irritations  almost  too 
slight  for  analysis,  subtle  with  that  devilish  refinement  of  which 
coarseness  is  only  capable  when  it  is  cruel,  rendered  his  life  in- 
tolerable. Matt's  vocabulary  was  too  mincing  for  his  fellow- 
craftsmen  ;  they  resented  his  absence  of  expletives,  though  im- 
perceptibly he  succumbed  to  the  polluted  atmosphere  which  had 
surrounded  him  ever  since  he  set  foot  in  Halifax ;  and  the  boy, 
whose  mind  was  stored  with  lovely  images  and  ethereal  lyrics, 
began  to  bespatter  his  talk  with  meaningless  oaths.  Nor  was 
this  his  only  coquetry  with  corruption,  for  the  daily  taunt  of 
"  milksop  "  conspired  with  the  ferment  of  youth. 

"  Varnishing-day  "  was  his  day  of  danger.  It  was  pay-day, 
and  Matt  had  boundless  money.  It  was  also  the  hardest  day 


110  THE    MASTER 

of  the  six,  the  wind-up,  when  all  the  work  of  the  week  was  var- 
nished in  an  atmosphere  of  sixty  degrees ;  and  the  poor  lad, 
drunk  with  the  fumes  of  turpentine,  sticky  from  head  to  foot, 
his  face  besplashed,  his  eyes  stinging,  his  nose  red,  and  his 
brain  dizzy,  threw  off  his  apron  and  overalls,  and  reeled  to  the 
door,  and  groped  his  way  into  the  streets  to  breathe  in  the 
glorious  fresh  air,  and  revel  like  the  rest  of  his  fellows  in  the 
joy  of  life — aye,  and  the  joy  of  license,  the  saturnalia  of  Satur- 
day night.  For  the  glorious  fresh  air  soon  palled,  and  in  the 
evening  Matt  was  dragged  by  his  mates  to  a  species  of  music- 
hall  in  a  hotel  near  the  harbor,  where,  in  a  festive  reek  of  bad 
tobacco  and  worse  whiskey,  he  repeated  the  choruses  of  wink- 
ing soubrettes,  dubious  refrains  whose  inner  meaning  the  brag 
and  badinage  of  the  workshop  had  made  obscurely  clear.  But 
disgust  invariably  supervened ;  Byron  and  Shelley  were  his 
Sunday  reading,  and  under  the  spell  of  their  romantic  song, 
which  chimed  with  his  soul's  awakening  melodies,  he  revolted 
against  his  low-minded  companions,  hating  himself  for  almost 
sinking  to  their  level. 

He  felt  that  he  inhabited  a  rarer  ether;  he  was  conscious 
of  a  curious  aloofness,  not  only  from  them,  but  from  humanity 
at  large,  and  yet  here  he  was  joining  in  their  coarse  con- 
viviality. To  such  a  mood  the  accidental  turning  up  of  an 
old  sketch  of  his  Halifax  divinity  on  her  horse  appealed  as 
decisively  as  an  accidental  text  was  wont  to  appeal  to  his 
mother.  The  beautiful  curves  of  her  figure,  the  purity  of  her 
complexion,  rebuked  him.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was  an 
artist  that  his  soul  was  touched  through  the  concrete.  In  a 
spasm  of  acuter  disgust,  and  in  a  confidence  of  higher  destinies, 
he  threw  up  his  berth. 

He  had  saved  twenty  dollars — twenty  stout  planks  between 
him  and  the  deep.  But  the  luck  that  had  been  his  hitherto 
deserted  him.  In  six  weeks  he  had  only  one  fortunate  fort- 
night, when  he  carried  the  hod  for  a  house-joiner,  and  was 
nearly  choked  by  the  veering  round  of  a  little  ladder,  through 
which  he  had  popped  his  head  in  mounting  a  bigger. 

One  by  one  his  twenty  planks  slipped  from  under  him,  and 
then  he  found  himself  struggling  in  the  lowest  depths.  The 


A    WANDER-YEAR  111 

few  dollars  he  had  squandered  on  the  music-hall  haunted  him 
with  added  reproach. 

Too  proud  to  beg  or  to  go  back  to  the  paint-shop  or  to  write 
to  his  mother,  his  only  possessions  his  clothes  and  a  box  of 
cheap  water-colors  he  carried  with  his  slim  library  in  his  jacket 
pockets,  he  searched  the  streets  for  an  odd  job,  or  stood  about 
the  wharves  amid  the  stevedores  and  negroes  to  earn  a  cop- 
per by  unasked  assistance  in  rolling  casks  into  warehouses, 
till  at  last,  when  the  cathedral  lawn  was  carpeted  with  autumn 
leaves,  the  streets  became  his  only  lodging.  Hungry  and 
homeless,  he  was  beginning  to  regret  his  hut  in  the  woods,  and 
to  meditate  a  retreat  from  civilization,  for  in  the  frosty  nights 
that  shadowed  the  genial  autumn  days  this  unsheltered  life 
was  not  pleasant,  when,  by  one  of  those  strokes  of  fortune 
which  fall  to  the  most  unfortunate,  he  found  a  night-refuge. 
A  fellow-lodger  of  his  at  the  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star,  a 
glass-blower  out  of  work  with  whom  he  had  once  halved  his 
evening  bread,  <fell  into  employment,  and  gratefully  offered  him 
the  nocturnal  hospitality  of  the  factory.  Here,  voluptuously 
couched  on  warm  white  sand,  piles  and  barrels  of  which  lay  all 
about,  the  boy  forgot  the  gnawing  emptiness  of  his  stomach 
and  the  forlornness  of  his  situation  in  the  endless  fascination 
of  the  weird  effects  of  light  and  shade.  It  was  a  vast  place, 
dim  despite  its  gas-jets,  mysterious  with  shadowy  black  corners. 
The  red  flannel  shirts  of  the  men  struck  a  flamboyant  note  of 
color  in  the  duskiness ;  the  stokers  were  outlined  in  red  before 
the  roaring  furnaces,  the  blowers  were  bathed  in  a  dazzling 
white  glow  from  the  glass  at  the  end  of  their  blow-pipes,  so 
that  their  brawny  bare  arms  and  the  sweat  on  their  brows  stood 
out  luridly.  With  every  movement,  with  every  flickering  and 
waning  light,  there  was  a  changing  play  of  color.  Matt  would 
lie  awake  in  his  corner,  taking  mental  notes,  or  recording  the 
action  of  muscles  by  the  pencilled  silhouette  of  some  pictu- 
resque figure  rolling  the  pliant  glass.  Great  painters,  he  thought, 
in  his  boyish  ignorance,  worked  from  imagination  on  a  basis  of 
memory ;  but  he  was  not  strong  enough  yet  to  dispense  with 
observation,  though  observation  always  brought  despair  of  his 
power  to  catch  the  ever-shifting  subtleties  of  living  nature.  In 


112  THE    MASTER 

the  enthralment  of  these  studies,  and  in  his  sensuous  delight 
in  the  Dantesque  effects,  Matt  often  omitted  to  sleep  altogether. 
And  sometimes,  on  that  background  of  ruddy  gloom,  other 
visions  opened  out  to  the  boy  dreaming  on  his  bed  of  sinuous 
sand;  the  real  merged  into  the  imaginative,  and  this  again  into 
the  fantasies  of  delicious  drowsihead.  The  walls  fell  away, 
the  factory  blossomed  into  exotic  realms  of  romance ;  peerless 
houris,  ripe  in  womanhood,  passed  over  moon-silvered  waters 
in  gliding  caiques ;  prisoned  princesses,  pining  for  love,  showed 
dark  starry  eyes  behind  the  lattice-work  of  verandas ;  pensive 
maidens,  divinely  beautiful,  wandered  at  twilight  under  crescent 
moons  rising  faint  and  ghostly  behind  groves  of  cedars. 

London,  too,  figured  in  the  pageantry  of  his  dreams,  glitter- 
ing like  a  city  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  ablaze  with  palaces, 
athrob  with  music ;  and  perched  on  the  top  of  the  tallest 
cupola,  on  the  loftiest  hill,  stood  his  uncle  Matthew,  holding 
his  paint-brush  .like  a  sceptre,  king  of  the  realm  of  Art. 
Hark !  was  that  not  the  king's  trumpeters  calling,  calling  him 
to  the  great  city,  calling  him  to  climb  up  and'  take  his  place 
beside  the  sovereign?  Oh,  the  call  to  his  youth,  the  clarion 
call,  summoning  him  forth  to  toils  and  triumphs  in  some  en- 
chanted land !  Oh,  the  seething  of  the  young  blood  that 
thronged  the  halls  of  dream  with  loveliness,  and  set  seductive 
faces  at  the  casements  of  sleep,  and  sanctified  his  waking 
reveries  with  prescient  glimpses  of  a  sweet  spirit-woman  wait- 
ing in  some  veiled  recess  of  space  and  time  to  partake  and 
inspire  his  consecration  to  Art!  The  narrow  teachings  of  his 
childhood — the  conception  of  a  vale  of  tears  and  temptation — 
shrivelled  away  like  clouds  melting  into  the  illimitable  blue, 
merging  in  a  vast  sense  of  the  miracle  of  a  beautiful  world, 
a  world  of  infinitely  notable  form  and  color.  And  this  ex- 
pansion of  his  horizon  accomplished  itself  almost  impercep- 
tibly because  the  oppression  of  that  ancient  low-hanging  heaven 
overbrooding  earth,  of  that  sombre  heaven  lying  over  Cobe- 
quid  Village  like  a  pall,  was  not  upon  him,  and  he  was  free 
to  move  and  breathe  in  an  independence  that  made  existence 
ecstasy,  even  at  its  harshest.  So  that,  though  he  walked  in 
hunger  and  cold,  he  walked  under  triumphal  arches  of  rainbows. 


CHAPTER  IX 
ARTIST    AND    PURITAN 

BUT  the  dauntless,  practical  youth  lay  beneath  the  dreamer, 
even  as  the  Puritan  lay  beneath  the  artist.  Matt  could  not 
consent  to  live  on  his  host,  the  glass-blower,  who  shared  his 
lunch  with  him  —  in  the  middle  of  the  night  —  and  he  was 
almost  reduced  to  applying  again  at  the  paint-shop,  when  the 
captain  of  a  schooner  gave  him  a  chance  to  work  his  way  to 
Economy,  on  the  basin  of  Minas,  twenty-five  miles  below  Cobe- 
quid  Village.  Matt  had  to  make  up  his  mind  in  a  hurry,  for 
this  was  the  last  ship  bound  north  before  the  bay  was  frozen 
for  the  winter,  and  ships  bound  south  for  the  States  seemed 
always  to  have  a  plethora  of  crew.  The  mental  conflict  added 
to  the  pains  of  the  situation ;  to  go  north  again  was  to  con- 
fess defeat.  But  was  it  not  a  severer  defeat  to  lessen  a 
poor  man's  lunch,  even  although  he  accepted  only  a  minimum 
on  the  pretext  of  not  being  hungry  ?  This  reflection  decided 
him  ;  though  he  had  no  prospects  in  Economy,  and  nothing 
to  gain  but  a  few  days'  food  and  shelter,  he  agreed  informally 
to  ship  and  to  help  load  the  schooner  at  nightfall.  He 
would  have  preferred  to  go  on  board  at  once,  were  it  only 
to  dine  off  a  ship's  biscuit;  but  no  one  suspected  his  straits, 
and  so  he  had  an  afternoon  of  sauntering. 

On  the  hilly  outskirts  of  the  city  he  was  stopped  by  a 
stylish  young  lady,  so  dazzling  in  dress  and  beauty  that  for 
a  moment  he  did  not  recognize  Priscilla.  A.  fashionable 
crinoline,  and  a  full-sleeved  astrakhan  sacque,  together  with  an 
afghan  muffler  round  her  throat,  had  given  the  slim  chamber- 
maid an  imposing  portliness.  An  astrakhan  toque,  with  a 
waving  red  feather,  was  set  daintily  on  her  head,  and  below  the 


114  THE    MASTER 

sacque  her  gown  showed  magnificent  with  bows  and  airy 
flounces.  Evidently  her  afternoon  out. 

"  Good  land  !"  she  cried.     "  What  have  you  been  up  to  ?" 

"  Nothing.  I'm  in  a  hurry,"  ho  said,  flushing  shamefacedly  as 
he  passed  hastily  on. 

But  Priscilla  caught  him  by  the  hem  of  his  jacket. 

"  Don't  look  so  skairt !  Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me  all 
this  time  ?" 

"  Too  busy,"  he  murmured. 

"  Too  proud,  I  reckon.  I  thought  you'd  come  for  to  look  at 
your  decorations,  anyways ;  let's  go  right  along  there  ;  you  ain't 
lookin'  as  smart  as  a  cricket,  that's  a  fact ;  I'll  make  you  a  glass 
o'  real  nice  grog  to  pick  you  up  some." 

He  shook  his  head.    "  I'm  going  away — I'm  off  to  Economy." 

"  Scat !  You  want  to  give  me  the  mitten.  Why  don't  you 
speak  straight?  You  don't  like  me." 

She  looked  at  him,  half  provoked,  half  provokingly. 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  frank,  boyish  gaze ;  he  noted  the 
red  curve  of  her  pouting  lips,  the  subtle  light  in  her  eyes,  the 
warm  coloring  of  the  skin,  shadowed  at  the  neck  by  waves  of 
soft  brown  hair,  in  which  the  beads  of  a  chenille  net  glistened 
bluishly  ;  he  was  pleasured  by  the  brave  note  of  the  red  feather 
against  the  shining  black  of  the  toque,  the  piquant  relation  of 
the  toque  to  the  face,  and  he  thought  how  delightful  it  would  be 
to  transfer  all  these  tones  and  shades  to  canvas.  He  forgot  to 
answer  her ;  he  tried  to  store  up  the  complex  image  in  his 
memory. 

"  I'm  glad  you  don't  deny  it,"  she  said,  her  angry  face  bely- 
ing her  words. 

He  started.  "  Oh  yes,  I  like  you  well  enough,"  he  said, 
awkwardly. 

Her  face  softened  archly.  "  Then  why  don't  you  come  an' 
see  me  ?  I  won't  bite  you  !" 

"  I'm  sorry  !     I'm  sailing  to-night." 

"  I  guess  you  ain't !"  She  smiled  imperious  solicitation. 
"  What  are  you  goin'  to  do  in  Economy  ?  Why  don't  you 
stick  to  the  paint-shop  ?" 

"  I've  left  there  way  back  in  the  summer." 


ARTIST    AND    PURITAN  115 

"  What  made  you  leave  ?" 

"  Oh,  well !" 

"  Then  you  ain't  got  no  money  ?"  There  was  tender  concern 
iu  her  tones. 

"  Not  hardly." 

"  How  many  meals  have  you  had  to-day  ?" 

He  had  a  flash  of  resentment.  "  Don't  you  worry  about  me," 
he  said,  gruffly. 

"  Bother !"  said  Priscilla,  contemptuously,  though  her  voice 
faltered.  "  You're  jest  goin'  to  come  along  and  have  a  good 
square  meal." 

"  No,  I'm  not.     I'm  not  hungry  any." 

"  Oh,  Matt !  Where  do  you  expect  to  go  to  ?"  said  Priscilla, 
with  a  roguish,  disarming  smile. 

"  Not  with  you,"  rejoined  Matt,  smiling  in  response. 

Priscilla  laughed  heartily.  The  white  teeth  gleamed  rogu- 
ishly against  the  full  red  lips. 

"  Come  along,"  she  said,  with  good-humored  conclusiveness. 

He  shook  a  smiling  head.     "  Pm  going  to  Economy." 

"  You're  comin'  with  me  ;  the  boss  '11  stand  you  a  dinner  for 
repairin'  your  decorations." 

"Why,  what's  wrong  with  them  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

He  knew  from  his  book  how  liable  such  things  were  to 
decay. 

"  Oh,  the  centre  of  the  ceilin'  is  a  bit  off  color.  That  silly 
old  owl  of  a  Cynthia  spilt  a  pail  of  water  on  the  floor  above." 

"  You  don't  say  !"  he  cried,  in  concern. 

"  Honest  Injun  !  I  was  jest  mad.  You  could  get  lots  to  do 
if  you  would  stay  at  our  shanty." 

"  I'll  come  and  put  the  ceiling  right,"  he  said,  indecisively  ; 
and,  giving  her  his  hand  with  shy  awkwardness,  was  prome- 
naded in  triumph  through  the  dignified  streets.  He  felt  a  thrill 
of  romance  as  this  dazzling  person  clasped  his  hand  clingingly. 
He  wondered  how  she  dared  be  seen  with  so  shabby  a  being ; 
the  juxtaposition  had  a  touch  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  of  the  am- 
orous adventures  of  his  day-dreams  ;  it  was  like  a  princess  woo- 
ing a  pauper.  They  passed  other  couples  better  matched — some 
in  the  first  stage  of  courtship,  some  in  the  second.  In  the  first 


116  THE    MASTER 

stage  the  female  and  the  male  walked  apart — she  near  the  wall 
talking  glibly,  he  at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  silent,  gazing 
straight  ahead  in  apparent  disconnection.  In  the  second  stage 
the  lovers  walked  closer  together,  but  now  both  gazed  straight 
ahead,  and  both  were  silent ;  only  if  one  looked  between  them 
one  saw  two  red  hands  clasped  together,  like  the  antennae  of 
two  insects  in  conversation.  When  Priscilla  and  Matt  met 
pairs  in  this  advanced  stage,  her  hand  tightened  on  his,  and  she 
sidled  nearer.  It  was  like  a  third  stage,  and  Matt's  sense  of  ro- 
mance was  modified  by  a  blushing  shamefacedness. 

As  they  entered  the  hotel  Matt  made  instinctively  towards 
the  sitting-room  to  see  his  damaged  decorations;  but  Priscilla, 
protesting  that  he  must  feed  first,  steered  him  hurriedly  up-stairs 
into  his  old  apartment.  He  was  too  faint  with  hunger  to  resist 
her  stronger  will. 

"  There,  you  silly  boy !"  she  said,  affectionately,  depositing 
him  in  a  chair  before  the  stove,  which  she  lighted.  "  Now  you 
jest  set  there  while  I  tell"  the  boss."  She  lingered  a  moment  to 
caress  his  dark  hair  ;  then,  stooping  down  suddenly,  she  kissed 
him  and  fled. 

Matt's  heart  beat  violently,  the  blood  hustled  in  his  ears. 
The  sense  of  romance  grew  stronger,  but  mingled  therewith  was 
now  an  uneasy,  indefinable  apprehension  of  the  unknown.  The 
magnetism  of  Priscilla  repelled  as  much  as  it  drew  him  ;  his 
romance  was  touched  with  vague  terror.  Yet  as  the  fire  vivified 
the  bleak  bedroom,  with  its  text-ornamented  walls,  the  warm 
curves  of  the  girl's  face  painted  themselves  on  the  air,  subtly 
alluring. 

Priscilla  herself  was  back  soon,  bearing  some  cold  victual  and 
some  hot  grog,  and  watched  with  tender  satisfaction  the  boy's 
untroubled  appetite.  She  drank  a  little,  too,  when  he  was  done, 
and  they  clinked  glasses,  and  Matt  felt  it  was  all  very  wicked 
and  charming.  Stanzas  of  Shelley  and  Byron  pulsed  in  his 
memory,  tropical  flowers  of  speech  blossomed  in  his  brain. 

But  only  weeds  sprouted  out.  "It  was  real  good  of  you, 
Priscilla,  to  speak  to  the  boss.  I'd  better  see  to  the  ceiling  at 
once." 

"  Oh,  don't ;  it  can  wait  till  to-morrow." 


ARTIST    AND    PURITAN  117 

"  But  I  promised  to  go  aboard  to-night." 

"  You  nasty  feller,  you're  goin'  to  shake  me,  after  all." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Priscilla,"  he  said,  shyly.  "  I  only  wish  I 
could  do  something  to  show  my  gratitude  to  you." 

"  No,  you  don't."  Priscilla's  bosom  heaved,  and  tears  were  in 
her  eyes. 

«  Yes,  I  do." 

"  You  don't  like  me." 

"  I  do." 

"  You  don't  think  I'm  pretty." 

She  had  removed  her  things  now,  revealing  the  natural  grace- 
fulness of  her  figure. 

"  Oh,  Priscilla  !"  said  Matt,  looking  at  her.  "  Why,  I'd  give 
anything  if  I  could — "  He  paused,  timidly. 

"  Well,  why  can't  you  ?"  interrupted  Priscilla,  her  face  very 
close  to  his. 

"  I'm  not  good  enough  yet.     And  the  light's  failing." 

"  Why  !     What  do  you  want  of  the  light  ?" 

"  I  can't  paint  so  well  by  night.  The  color  looks  different  in 
the  day.  But  I'd  give  anything  to  be  able  to  paint  something 
as  pretty  as  you." 

Priscilla  swept  her  glass  aside,  pettishly. 

"  Lan'  sakes,  what  a  boy  !  Pictures,  pictures,  pictures  !  If  it 
ain't  the  ceilin',  it's  me  !  There  are  better  things  on  this  earth 
than  pictures,  Matt." 

Matt  shook  his  head,  with  a  sceptical  smile. 

Priscilla  looked  disconcerted.  "  Why,  didn't  you  say  I  was 
prettier  than  a  picture,  Matt?" 

"  Oh,  that's  different,"  he  parried,  feebly ;  then,  feeling  her 
fascination  lulling  him  to  forgetfulness  of  the  price  to  be 
paid  for  his  dinner,  as  well  as  of  the  mute  appeal  of  his  dam- 
aged designs,  he  jumped  up.  "I'd  best  see  to  the  ceiling 
before  it's  too  late.  I  wonder  if  they've  kept  the  materials 
handy." 

"  Set  down,  Matt." 

"  Oh,  but  I  mustn't  cheat  the  boss." 

"  Who's  talkin'  o'  cheatin'  ?     This  is  my  treat." 

"  Oh,  but  it  ain't  right  o'  you,  Priscilla,"  he  protested. 


118  THE    MASTER 

"  Never  mind ;  when  I'm  down  on  my  luck  you  shall  do  as 
much  for  me." 

"  I'll  send  you  half  a  dollar  from  Economy,"  he  said,  reso- 
lutely. Then,  smiling  to  temper  his  ungraciousness,  he  added, 
"  Short  reckonings  make  long  friends,  hey  ? — as  an  old  deacon 
I  knew  used  to  say.  I  guess  I'll  go  down -stairs  now,  Pris- 
cilla." 

"  What  for  ?     You  haven't  got  to  go  aboard  till  nightfall  ?" 

"  You're  forgetting  the  ceiling.  I  kind  o'  want  to  touch  it  up 
all  the  same." 

"  You  silly  boy,"  she  said,  with  a  fond  smile,  "  that  was  only 
my  fun." 

"  Priscilla !"  He  stared  at  her  in  reproachful  amazement. 
Was  his  incurable  trust  in  humanity  always  to  be  shaken 
thus? 

"  Don't  look  so  solemn." 

"  But  you  told  me  a  fib  !" 

"  Scat !  D'  you  think  I  was  goin'  to  let  you  fool  around  on 
an  empty  stomach  ?" 

"  But  you  told  me  a  lie."  The  boy  towered  over  her  like  an 
irate  judgment-angel. 

Priscilla  had  a  happy  thought.  "  But  you  told  me  a  lie.  You 
said  you  warn't  hungry." 

Matt  looked  startled. 

"  Oh,  but  that — that  was  different,"  he  stammered  again. 

"  Can't  see  it.     Tit  for  tat." 

Matt  pondered  in  silence. 

Priscilla  rose.  "  Set  down,"  she  said,  soothingly,  and  the  boy, 
feeling  confusedly  guilty,  let  himself  be  pressed  down  into  his 
seat. 

Priscilla  nestled  to  him,  sharing  his  chair,  and  pressing  her 
soft  cheek  to  his. 

"  Was  he  mad  with  his  poor  little  Priscilla?"  she  cooed.  "  No, 
he  mustn't  be  angry,  bless  his  handsome  face." 

Matt  was  not  angry  any  longer,  but  he  was  uncomfortable. 
He  tried  to  whip  up  his  sense  of  romance,  to  feel  what  he  felt 
in  reading  love-poetry,  to  fancy  that  he  was  sitting  with  a  pen- 
sive princess  in  a  cedar  grove  under  a  crescent  moon.  But  he 


ARTIST    AND    PURITAN  119 

could  only  feel  that  Priscilla  was  a  real  terrestrial  person,  and 
mendacious  at  that. 

Priscilla's  lips  sought  his  in  a  long  kiss.  "  You  are  fond  o1 
me,  Matt,  aren't  you  ?"  she  murmured,  coaxingly. 

Matt's  conscience  checked  conventional  response.  He  faltered? 
slowly  :  "  I  guess  you're  real  good  to  me." 

A  moment  later  the  door  opened.  Priscilla  sprang  up  hur- 
riedly, and,  to  be  doing  something,  noisily  pulled  down  the  roll- 
er-blind. 

"  That  you,  Cynthia  ?"  she  said,  carelessly. 

"  Yes,  it's  me,"  grumbled  the  old  woman.  "  You're  wanted 
down-stairs." 

a  In  a  jiffy.  I'm  just  lighting  Mr.  Strang's  candles,"  she  said, 
fumbling  about  for  them  in  the  darkness  she  had  herself  pro- 
duced. 

<l  Rayther  early,"  croaked  Cynthia. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Strang  wants  to  paint ;  there  ain't  enough  light  to 
see  by/"  replied  Priscilla,  glibly,  while  Matt  felt  his  cheeks  must 
surely  be  visible  by  the  light  of  their  own  glow. 

The  candles  were  lit,  and  Priscilla,  ostentatiously  running  into 
the  next  room,  returned  with  a  sheet  of  white  paper.  "  There 
you  are,  Mr.  Strang !"  she  cried,  cheerfully,  adding  in  a  whisper, 
"  I'll  be  back  presently.  You  won't  go  to-night,  will  you  ?"  And 
her  eyes  pleaded  amorously. 

No  sooner  had  Priscilla  disappeared  than  Matt's  perception 
of  romance  in  the  position  began  to  return ;  but  it  was  an  im- 
personal, artistic  perception  ;  he  was  but  a  spectator  of  the 
situation.  He  could  not  understand  his  own  apathetic  aloofness. 

He  walked  restlessly  about  the  room,  trying  to  pump  up  By- 
ronic  emotion,  but  finding  the  well  of  sentiment  strangely  dry. 
His  eye  wandered  to  the  blind,  and  became  censoriously  ab- 
sorbed in  the  crude  flowers  and  figures  stamped  upon  the  ar- 
senic-green background  ;  he  studied  the  effects  of  the  candle- 
light on  the  glaring  coloration,  noting  how  the  yellow  roses 
had  turned  pink.  Then  Priscilla's  face  flew  up  amid  the  flare 
of  flowers,  and  Matt,  seizing  the  sheet  of  paper  and  pulling 
out  his  paint-box,  forgot  everything  else,  even  the  artificial 
light,  in  the  task  of  expressing  Priscilla  in  water-color. 


120  THE    MASTER 

He  had  nearly  finished  the  sketch,  which  glowed  with  dainty 
vitality,  though  the  figure  came  out  too  lady-like.  Suddenly  the 
sound  of  voices  broke  upon  his  ear.  Priscilla  and  Cynthia  were 
talking  outside  his  door. 

His  critical  situation  recurred  to  him  in  a  flash,  his  broken 
promise  to  the  captain  if  he  yielded  to  the  pertinacious  Pris- 
cilla. The  artist's  imagination  might  enflame ;  the  crude  actual- 
ity chilled,  curiosity  alone  persisting.  And  the  latent  Puritan 
leaped  up  at  bay ;  far-away  reminiscences  of  whispered  refer- 
ences to  the  flesh  and  the  devil  resurged,  with  all  that  mystic 
flavor  of  chill,  unspeakable  godlessness  that  attaches  to  sins 
dimly  apprehended  in  childhood.  "  Remember  thy  Creator  in 
the  days  of  thy  youth,"  seen  suddenly  in  red  letters  on  one  of 
the  wall -texts,  was  like  the  voice  of  a  minatory  Providence. 
Poor  Priscilla  became  an  advancing  serpent,  dragging  insidious 
coils. 

He  shut  up  his  paint-box  hastily,  and  scribbling  beneath  the 
sketch,  "  For  Priscilla — with  Matt's  thanks,"  he  puffed  at  the 
candles.  Only  one  went  out.  Priscilla  was  still  talking  out- 
side. His  heart  was  thumping  with  excitement  as  he  added  in 
a  corner :  "  I  promised  the  captain.  Good-bye."  Then,  blow- 
ing out  the  other  candle,  he  waited,  striving  to  draw  serener 
breath  as  Priscilla  still  dallied  without. 

Only  a  blurred  glimmer  showed  through  the  isinglass  of  the 
stove  door;  the  room  was  quite  dark.  He  began  to  hope  she 
would  ascend  with  Cynthia,  and  leave  the  coast  temporarily 
clear;  but  at  last  only  Cynthia's  step  receded,  and  he  heard 
Priscilla  turning  the  door-handle.  It  was  an  anxious  moment. 
He  heard  her  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Have  you  gone  to  bed  ?"  she  cried. 

He  held  his  breath  as  she  grazed  his  sleeve  in  the  darkness. 
Then  he  glided  out,  and  slid  boyishly  down  the  banisters  like 
a  flash.  There  was  a  gay  hubbub  of  voices  in  the  saloon  ;  he 
walked  unquestioned  into  the  street,  then  ran  (as  if  pursued  by  a 
horde  of  Amazons)  till  he  reached  the  docks,  and  saw  the  friend- 
ly vessel  moored  against  the  wharf. 

Remorse  for  his  balked  romance  set  in  severely  as  soon  as 
the  bustle  of  loading  was  over  and  the  anchor  weighed ;  Pris- 


ARTIST    AND    PURITAN  121 

cilia  took  on  the  halo  of  Byronism  and  the  Arabian  Nights 
which  had  steadily  absented  itself  in  practice.  Often  during 
that  miserable  voyage  he  called  himself  a  fool  and  a  milksop ; 
for  the  passage  was  a  nightmare  of  new  duties,  complicated  by 
sea-sickness  and  the  weakness  of  a  half -starved  constitution,  and 
on  that  swinging  schooner,  with  its  foul-mouthed  captain,  the 
mean  bedroom  he  had  deserted  showed  like  a  stable  paradise. 
But  blustrous  as  the  captain  was  by  the  side  of  the  blubbering 
Bludgeon,  he  had  his  compensations,  for  he  made  the  voyage 
before  the  few  passengers  had  found  their  sea-legs.  Arrived  in 
Economy,  Matt  was  again  face  to  face  with  starvation.  But 
here  Fortune  smiled — with  a  suspicion  of  humor  in  her  smile ; 
and  having  already  climbed  masts  and  ladders  for  his  dinner, 
her  protege  was  easily  tempted  to  seek  it  at  the  top  of  a  steeple. 
The  steeple,  after  tapering  to  a  point  two  hundred  feet  high, 
was  crowned  by  a  ball,  which  for  years  had  needed  regilding. 
Unfortunately  the  architect  had  made  the  ball  almost  inaccessi- 
ble, but  Matt,  being  desperate,  undertook  the  job.  The  breath 
of  winter  was  already  on  the  town  ;  a  week  more  and  the  whole 
steeple  would  be  decorated  for  the  season  with  snow,  so  Matt's 
offer  was  accepted,  and,  his  boots  equipped  with  creepers,  the 
young  steeple-jack,  begirt  with  ropes,  made  the  ascent  safely  in 
the  eye  of  the  admiring  populace,  lowered  the  great  ball  and 
then  himself,  and  being  thereupon  given  board  and  lodging  and 
materials,  he  gilded  it  in  the  privacy  of  his  garret.  Thus  be- 
come a  public  hero,  Matt  easily  got  through  the  winter.  He 
decorated  the  ceiling  of  the  Freemasons'  Hall,  and  painted  a 
portrait  of  the  member  of  the  House  of  Assembly,  a  burly 
farmer.  This  was  his  first  professional  experience  of  an  actual 
sitter,  and  he  found  himself  more  hampered  than  helped  by  too 
close  contact  with  reality.  However,  a  touch  of  imagination 
does  no  harm  to  a  portrait,  and  Matt  had  by  this  time  acquired 
sufficient  experience  of  humanity  to  lean  to  beauty's  side  even 
apart  from  his  youthful  tendency  to  idealization,  which  made  it 
impossible  for  him  at  this  period  to  paint  anything  that  was  not 
superficially  beautiful  or  picturesque.  The  member  pronounced 
the  portrait  life-like,  and  gave  Matt  a  bushel  of  home-grown 
potatoes  over  and  above  the  stipulated  price,  which  was  board 


122  THE    MASTER 

and  lodging  during  the  period  of  painting,  and  an  order  on  a 
store  for  two  dollars.  With  the  order  Matt  purchased  a  pair  of 
Congress  or  side-spring  boots ;  the  potatoes  he  swopped  for  a 
box  of  paper  collars.  From  Economy  he  wrote  home  to  his 
mother,  and  received  an  incoherent  letter,  in  which  she  de- 
nounced the  deacon  by  the  aid  of  fulminant  texts.  Matt  sighed 
impotently,  pitying  her  from  his  deeper  experience  of  life,  but 
hoping  she  got  on  better  with  "Ole  Hey"  than  she  imagined. 
He  had  half  a  mind  to  look  up  his  folks,  especially  poor  Billy ; 
but  just  then  he  got  an  order  from  the  farmer-deputy's  brother, 
who  wrote  that  he  was  so  pleased  with  his  brother's  portrait 
that  he  wished  Matt  to  paint  his  sign-board.  He  added  that, 
although  he  had  not  seen  any  specimen  of  Matt's  sign-writing,  he 
felt  confident  the  painter  of  that  portrait  would  be  a  competent 
person.  Matt  accepted  the  new  task  with  mixed  feelings,  and  got 
so  many  other  commissions  from  the  shopkeepers  (for  every  shop 
had  its  movable  sign- board)  that  he  soon  saved  fifty  dollars, 
and  seemed  on  the  high  sea  to  England  and  his  ur.cle.  He  had 
fixed  three  hundred  dollars  as  the  minimum  with  which  he  might 
safely  go  to  London  to  study  art.  The  steerage  passage  would 
cost  only  twenty.  Unfortunately  he  was  persuaded  to  invest  his 
savings  in  a  partnership  with  a  Yankee  jewel-peddler,  and  to  travel 
the  country  with  him.  The  peddler  did  not  swindle  his  partner, 
merely  his  clients  ;  but  Matt  was  so  disgusted  that  he  refused  to 
remain  in  the  business.  Thereupon  the  peddler,  freed  from  the 
obligations  of  partnership,  treated  him  as  an  outsider,  and  re- 
fused to  return  his  principal.  Matt  thought  himself  lucky  to 
escape  in  the  end  with  twenty-five  dollars  and  a  cleansed  con- 
science. He  went  back  to  sign-painting,  but,  taking  a  hint  from 
the  Yankee,  continued  his  travels,  and  became  a  peddler-painter. 
He  hated  the  work,  was  out  of  sympathy  with  his  prosaic  sitters, 
wondering  by  virtue  of  what  grace  or  loveliness  they  sought 
survival  on  canvas ;  but  the  road  to  Art,  by  way  of  his  uncle  in 
London,  lay  over  their  painted  bodies,  so  he  drudged  along.  And 
yet  when  the  sitter  was  dissatisfied  with  the  picture — it  was  gen- 
erally the  sitter's  friends  who  persuaded  him  that  he  was  dissat- 
isfied— and  when  Matt  had  to  listen  to  the  fatuous  criticisms  of 
farmers  and  store-keepers,  the  artist  flared  up,  and  more  than 


EXODUS  123 

once  the  hot-blooded  boy  sacrificed  dollars  to  dignity.  He  was 
astonished  to  find  that  in  many  quarters  his  fame  had  preceded 
him,  and  more  astonished  to  discover  finally  that  the  advance 
advertiser  was  his  late  partner.  Whether  the  Yankee  com- 
pounded thus  for  the  use  of  Matt's  dollars  Matt  never  knew, 
but  in  his  kinder  thought  of  the  cute  peddler  the  boy  came  to 
think  himself  the  debtor.  For  the  dollars  mounted,  one  on  the 
head  of  another,  and  the  heap  rose  higher  and  higher,  day  by 
day  and  week  by  week,  till  at  last  the  magic  three  hundred  be- 
gan to  loom  in  the  eye  of  hope.  Three  hundred  dollars  !  saved 
by  the  sweat  of  the  brow  and  semi-starvation,  and  sanctified  by 
the  blood  and  tears  of  youth  ;  sweet  to  count  over  and  to  dream 
over,  and  to  pile  up  like  a  tower  to  scale  the  skies. 

And  so  the  great  day  drew  near  when  Matt  Strang  would  sail 
across  the  Atlantic. 


CHAPTER  X 

EXODUS 

BILLY  STRANG  was  dreaming  happy  dreams  —  dreams  of 
action  and  adventure,  in  which  he  figured  not  as  the  morbid 
cripple,  but  as  the  straight-limbed  hero.  Matt  was  generally 
with  him  in  these  happy  hunting-grounds  of  sleep  —  dear  old 
Matt,  who  had  become  a  creature  of  dream  to  his  waking  life. 
But  absorbed  as  Billy  was  in  this  phantasmagoric  happiness, 
he  was  still  the  sport  of  every  unwonted  sound  from  the  real 
world.  His  tremulous  nerves  quivered  at  the  first  shock,  ready 
to  flash  back  to  his  brain  the  bleaker  universe  of  aches  and 
regrets  and  rancorous  household  quarrels. 

To-night  he  sat  up  suddenly,  with  a  premonition  of  some- 
thing strange,  and  gazed  into  the  darkness  of  the  bedroom, 
seeing  only  the  dim  outline  of  the  other  bed  in  which  his  two 
younger  brothers  slept.  After  a  long  moment  of  mysterious 
rustling,  a  thin  ray  of  light  crept  in  under  the  door,  then  the 
handle  turned  very  softly,  and  his  mother  glided  in  swiftly, 


124  THE    MASTER 

bearing  a  candle  that  made  a  monstrous  shadow  follow  and 
bend  over  her.  She  was  fully  dressed  in  out- door  attire, 
wearing  her  bonnet  and  sacque  and  muffler. 

Her  eyes  were  wide  with  excitement  and  shone  weirdly,  and 
the  whole  face  wore  an  uncanny  look. 

Billy  trembled  in  cold  terror.     His  mouth  opened  gaspingly. 

"  Sh-h-h-h !"  whispered  his  mother,  putting  a  forefinger  to 
her  lips.  Then,  in  hurried  accents,  she  breathed,  "  Quick,  get 
up  and  dress  to  oncet !" 

Magnetized  by  her  face,  he  slipped  hastily  from  the  bed,  too 
awed  to  question. 

"  Sh-h-h-h  !"  she  breathed  again,  "  or  you'll  wake  Ruth." 
Then,  moving  with  the  same  noiseless  precipitancy,  her  shadow 
now  growing  to  giant,  now  dwindling  to  dwarf,  "  Quick,  quick, 
children  !"  she  whispered,  shaking  them.  The  two  younger  boys 
sat  up,  dazed  by  sleep  and  the  candle,  and  were  silently  bundled 
out  of  bed,  yawning  and  blinking,  and  automatically  commenc- 
ing to  draw  on  the  socks  they  found  thrust  into  their  hands. 

"  Your  best  clothes,"  she  whispered  to  Billy,  throwing  open 
the  cupboard  in  which  they  hung. 

The  action  seemed  to  loosen  his  tongue. 

"  But  it  ain't  Sunday,"  he  breathed. 

"  Sh-h-h-h !  To-day  is  a  holiday.  Put  them  on  quick, 
quick !"  she  replied,  in  the  same  awful  whisper.  "  We  are 
goin'  out  of  the  land  of  bondage  in  haste  with  our  loins 
girded.  And  lo !  in  the  mornin'  in  every  house  there  was  one 
dead." 

She  set  down  the  candle  on  the  little  bare  wooden  table, 
where  it  gleamed  solemnly  in  the  gaunt  room.  Then  she  fell  to 
feverishly  helping  the  children  to  dress,  darting  violently  from 
one  to  another,  and  half  paralyzing  Billy,  whose  fumbling, 
freezing  fingers  could  not  keep  pace  with  her  frantic  impa- 
tience. He  dropped  a  boot,  and  the  sound  seemed  to  echo 
through  the  silent  house  like  a  diabolical  thunder-clap.  He 
cowered  before  her  blazing  eyes  as  she  picked  up  the  boot  and 
violently  dumped  his  foot  into  it. 

"  Are  we  goin'  out,  mother  ?"  he  said,  so  as  not  to  scream. 
His  words  sounded  sinister  and  terrible  to  himself. 


EXODUS  125 

"  Yes ;  I'll  go  an'  see  if  the  girls  are  finished  dressinV 
She  took  up  the  candle,  and  her  whisper  grew  sterner.  "  Don't 
make  a  S9iind  !" 

"  But  where  are  we  goin',  mother  ?"  he  said,  to  detain  her  for 
an  instant. 

"  Goin'  home.  We're  throwin'  up  the  position !"  And  for 
the  first  time  the  exultation  in  her  voice  raised  it  above  a 
whisper.  Then,  putting  her  forefinger  to  her  lip  again,  "  Not 
a  sound  !"  she  breathed,  menacingly,  and  moved  on  tiptoe  to  the 
door,  her  face  set  and  shining,  her  shadow  tumbling  grotesquely 
on  the  walls  and  ceilings. 

"  A-a-a-h !"  Billy  fell  back  on  the  bed,  screaming.  Like  a 
flash  his  mother  turned  ;  her  hand  was  clapped  fiercely  over  his 
mouth. 

"  You  little  devil !"  she  hissed.  "  What  do  you  mean  by 
disobeyin'  ?" 

"  The  light !     The  light !"  he  gurgled. 

She  withdrew  her  hand.  "  What  are  you  shakin'  'bout  ? 
There's  light  'nough."  She  drew  up  the  blind,  and  a  faint 
moonlight  blurred  itself  through  the  frosty  glass.  "You're 
growed  up  now,  you  big  booby.  An'  your  brothers  are  with 
you." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  he  gasped,  clutching  at  her  skirt. 

"  With  that  crutch  o'  yours,  you  pesky  eyesore !"  she  whis- 
pered, angrily.  "  You'll  stay  with  the  little  uns,  bless  their 
brave  little  hearts."  And  she  clasped  the  dazed  children  to 
her  breast.  "The  Lord  hes  punished  him  for  his  cruelty  to 
you.  .  .  .  Finish  your  dressin',  quick."  She  released  the  two 
little  boys  and  glided  cautiously  from  the  room,  holding  the 
candle  low,  so  that  her  great  wavering  shadow  darkened  the 
room  even  before  the  thicker  horror  of  blackness  fell  when  she 
was  gone.  The  three  children  pressed  together,  their  heart- 
beats alone  audible  in  the  awful  stillness.  They  were  too 
bewildered  and  terrified  to  exchange  even  a  whisper.  An 
impalpable  oppression  brooded  over  the  icy  room,  and  a  dull 
torpor  possessed  their  brain,  so  that  they  made  no  effort  to 
understand.  They  only  felt  that  something  unreal  was  happen- 
ing, something  preternaturally  solemn.  After  a  dream- like 


126  THE    MASTER 

interval  of  darkness,  the  mysterious  rustling  was  repeated  with- 
out, a  thin  line  of  light  crept  again  under  the  door,  and  their 
mother's  face  reappeared,  gleaming  lurid  in  the  circle  of  the 
candle-rays.  The  two  girls  loomed  in  her  wake,  a  big  and  a 
little,  both  wrapped  up  for  a  journey,  but  shivering  and  yawn- 
ing and  rubbing  their  eyes,  still  glued  together  by  sleep.  The 
younger  boys,  who  had  remained  numb,  guiltily  gave  the  last 
hasty  touches  to  their  costume  under  the  irate  gaze  of  their 
mother.  But  Billy's  face  had  grown  convulsed. 

His  mother  advanced  towards  him,  dazzling  his  eyes  with  the 
candle  and  her  face,  and  bending  down  so  that  her  eyes  lay 
almost  on  his. 

"  Don't  you  dare  to  have  a  fit  now,"  she  hissed,  her  features 
almost  as  agitated  as  his  own,  "  or  I'll  cut  your  throat  like 
I've  cut  his." 

The  intensity  of  her  will  mastered  him,  oversweeping  even 
the  added  horror  of  her  words,  and  combined  with  the  return 
of  the  light  to  ward  off  the  threatened  paroxysm.  He  dragged 
on  his  top-coat.  Only  a  few  minutes  had  elapsed  since  he  had 
sat  up  in  bed,  yet  it  seemed  hours.  The  mother  stealthily  led 
the  way  through  the  hushed  house,  down  the  creaking  stairs, 
blowing  out  the  light  in  the  hall.  When  she  opened  the  outer 
door  the  cold  air  smote  their  faces  like  a  whip.  As  she  was 
cautiously  closing  the  door  a  dark  thing  ran  out  through  the 
aperture. 

"  There  goes  his  soul !"  she  whispered,  in  grim  exultation. 

But  it  was  only  Sprat. 

The  creature,  now  old  and  infirm,  quietly  took  his  familiar 
place  in  the  rear  of  the  procession,  which  now  set  forth  over  the 
frozen  moonlit  snow  under  the  solemn  stars  in  the  direction 
of  Cobequid  Village.  The  farm-hands,  asleep  in  the  attic  built 
over  the  kitchen,  in  an  "  ell,"  or  annex,  to  the  main  house, 
heard  nothing.  Ruth,  sleeping  the  sleep  of  virginal  health  and 
innocence  in  her  dainty  chamber,  was  deep  in  kindly  dreams. 
The  woman  led  the  way  noiselessly  but  rapidly,  so  that  the 
little  children  had  to  run  to  keep  pace  with  her,  and  Billy 
dragged  himself  along  by  clinging  to  her  skirt,  dreading  to  be 
left  behind  in  the  great  lonely  night.  The  road  led  downhill 


EXODUS  127 

towards  a  little  valley,  in  which  stood  the  deacon's  grist-mill, 
hidden  by  trees,  but,  as  they  drew  near  it,  showing  dark  against 
the  white  hill  that  rose  again  beyond  it.  They  descended 
towards  it  through  a  cutting  in  the  hill  lined  with  overhanging 
snow-drifts,  curled  like  crystallized  waves.  Everything  seemed 
dead;  the  mill-pond  was  frozen  and  snow -covered;  frozen 
bundles  of  green  hides  stood  in  piles  against  the  front  of  the 
mill ;  there  were  icicles  round  the  edges  of  the  sullen  cascade 
that  fell  over  the  dam.  The  mill-stream  was  a  sheet  of  ice, 
spotted  ermine-wise  with  black  dots,  where  air-holes  showed 
the  gloomy  water  below.  The  procession  crossed  the  little 
wooden  bridge,  bordered  by  bare  willows,  whose  branches 
glittered  with  frost,  and  then  the  snow-path  rose  again.  Every 
sound  was  heard  intensely  in  the  keen  air — the  rumbling  of 
the  little  water-fall,  the  gurgling  of  the  stream  under  the  ice,  the 
frost  fusillade  of  the  zigzag  pole  fences  snapping  along  the 
route,  the  crunch  of  crisp  snow  under  their  feet.  They 
mounted  the  hill,  and  reached  the  broad,  flat  fields  that 
stretched  on  white  and  bare  to  Cobequid.  The  last  inch  of 
Deacon  Hailey's  possessions  was  left  behind.  Then  the  leader 
of  the  procession  slackened  her  pace,  and  lifted  up  her  voice  in 
raucous  thanksgiving : 

"  *  When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved, 
An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame.' 

"  Now,  then,  sing  up,  children  !"  she  cried. 

Bewildered  and  still  half  asleep,  they  obeyed  —  in  bleating, 
quavering  tones  that  came  through  chattering  teeth  to  an  ac- 
companiment of  cloudy  breath. 

The  woman  and  her  children  passed  on  into  the  night,  sing- 
ing. Amid  the  stretches  of  sky  and  space  they  seemed  a  group 
of  black  insects  crawling  across  a  great  white  plain. 

Abner  Preep,  coming  down  before  dawn,  found  a  bunch  of 
children  on  the  great  kitchen  settee,  asleep  in  their  clothes. 
The  mother  sat  on  the  floor  before  the  open  stove,  smiling 


128  THE    MASTER 

happily  and  muttering  to  herself.  They  had  quietly  taken  pos- 
session of  the  old  familiar  room  and  stirred  up  the  slumbering  fire. 

For  the  first  few  seconds  Abner  wondered  if  he  was  dream- 
ing, for  the  next  if  he  were  mad.  But  another  look  at  the 
crouching  woman  convinced  him  that  it  was  not  he  that  was 
mad ;  while  a  phrase  from  her  babbling  lips  sent  something 
of  the  truth  home  to  his  beating  heart.  He  roused  Harriet  and 
broke  the  news  as  gently  as  time  permitted.  The  brave  girl 
bade  him  drive  at  once  to  Deacon  Hailey's  while  she  kept 
guard  over  her  mother.  Abner  thereupon  mounted  his  horse 
bare-back,  to  save  time,  and  galloped  to  the  farm. 

To  his  relief  he  found  the  deacon  little  injured.  The  neglect 
of  his  beard  had  been  "  Ole  Key's  "  salvation.  It  had  sprouted 
thick  and  tangled  about  his  throat,  and  the  mad  woman,  armed 
with  a  blunt  knife,  had  only  inflicted  a  flesh-wound,  leaving  the 
trachea  unsevered.  The  sleeping  man,  suddenly  awakening  to 
the  strange  spectacle  of  his  wife  in  out-door  attire  brandishing 
a  knife,  had  fainted  from  horror  and  loss  of  blood.  But  pres- 
ently recovering  consciousness,  he  had  clamored  for  Ruth,  and 
with  her  help  bound  up  the  wound,  already  half  stanched  by 
the  clogging  beard. 

The  matter  was  kept  in  the  family,  but  the  deacon  swore  he 
would  have  no  more  to  do  with  the  woman  or  her  unmannerly 
brood  beyond  paying  the  minimum  for  her  incarceration  where 
she  could  do  no  more  mischief ;  and  so  Abner  took  her  forth- 
with by  sleigh  and  train  to  the  capital,  and  placed  her  in  a 
private  asylum. 

In  this  manner  Mrs.  Strang  went  back  to  Halifax. 

When  Matt  heard  the  awful  tidings  his  air-castles  crashed 
and  fell  as  at  the  crack  of  doom.  Abner  Preep  was  the 
messenger  of  evil,  for  Matt's  painting  tour  had  brought  him 
near  Halifax,  and  Abner  thought  it  best  to  look  up  his  boyish 
enemy  ere  he  went  back  home. 

Beneath  all  the  tumult  of  consternation  in  Matt's  breast 
there  throbbed  an  undertone  of  remorse — a  vague  feeling  that 
this  would  never  have  happened  had  he  been  on  the  spot.  His 
boyish  wilfulness  had  received  its  death-blow. 


EXODUS  129 

"  But  it  served  him  right,"  he  cried,  with  irresistible  bitter- 
ness, when  he  heard  the  deacon  had  not  only  washed  his  hands 
of  the  family,  but  was  now  vindictively  pressing  Abner  for 
the  arrears  of  the  mortgage  interest  which  had  been  allowed 
to  lapse  while  Abner  was  building  up  his  position.  Abner 
had  always  understood  that  Mrs.  Strang  had  exacted  the  free- 
dom of  her  property.  But  there  was  nothing  in  black  and 
white. 

" There's  no  gettin'  out  of  it,"  said  Abner,  gloomily.  "But 
your  poor  father  must  hev  made  an  everlastin'  mess  of  it,  fur 
how  there  comes  to  be  so  much  to  pay  arter  all  these  years  fur 
a  few  acres  of  ground  an'  a  wretched  shanty,  durned  if  I  can 
make  out." 

"  He  cheated  father,  you  may  depend,"  said  Matt,  hotly. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  as  fur  nor  thet,"  said  Abner.  "  It  ain't  right 
to  call  a  man  a  thief  without  proof.  Anyway,  I've  got  to 
stump  up.  I  shouldn't  ha'  minded  it  in  an  ornery  way,  though 
I  hev  got  two  babies,  bless  their  souls.  But  it  comes  hard  jest 
now,  with  five  extra  mouths  to  feed." 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  not  going  to  feed  them !" 

"Who,  then?" 

"  Me,  of  course." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,  Matt !"  said  Abner.  "  You've  got  to 
go  to  London  an'  larn  paintin'.  Harriet's  told  me  all  'bout  you, 
an'  she's  got  some  o'  your  picters,  an'  they're  rael  beautiful. 
There's  one  in  our  bedroom.  Besides,  they're  all  growed  up 
now  a'most,  an'  they'll  soon  be  feedin'  theirselves.  An'  then, 
you  see,  the  house  itself  is  your  sister's,  not  mine." 

"  It's  mighty  good  of  you,"  said  Matt,  hoarsely,  "  but  it  isn't 
fair." 

"  No  more  it  was  o'  me  fightin'  you  thet  thar  time,"  said 
Abner,  smiling.  "  This  evens  things  up." 

There  was  a  great  lump  in  Matt's  throat  so  that  he  could  not 
speak.  He  held  out  his  hand  mutely,  and  Abner  took  it,  and 
they  gripped  each  other  so  heartily  that  the  tears  started  to  the 
eyes  of  both. 

"  Then  thet's  settled,"  said  Abner,  with  husky  cheeriness. 

"  No,  that's  only  to  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Matt,  recovering 

9 


130  THE    MASTER 

his  voice.  "  I've  been  a  skunk  to  you,  that's  a  fact.  But  I'm 
not  going  to  behave  badly  again.  I'm  just  raking  in  the  dollars 
now  hand  over  fist,  and  learning  painting  all  the  time  into  the 
bargain.  I  don't  want  a  bit  to  go  to  London,  and  I've  put  by 
two  hundred  and  eighty  dollars  that  aren't  the  least  use  to 
me,  and  that  '11  just  come  in  handy  to  pay  the  old  scoundrel. 
And  I  can  easily  send  you  five  dollars  a  week  till  I  earn  more. 
Billy  alone  '11  cost  you  near  that,  I  guess,  and  it's  my  fault  he 
can't  earn  anything  hardly." 

In  the  end  the  imperious  Matt  had  his  way,  and,  while  the 
boy  went  on  to  see  his  mother,  Abner  returned  home  with  the 
situation  considerably  lightened,  the  bearer  of  money  for  Dea- 
con Hailey,  and  loving  messages  for  all  Matt's  brothers  and 
sisters,  even  Harriet  being  now  restored  to  grace. 

Matt  found  his  mother  in  a  small  padded  room  in  a  house 
that  stood  on  the  hill  overlooking  the  harbor.  She  was  gazing 
yearningly  seaward,  and  tears  trickled  down  her  doleful  cheeks. 
Matt  stood  silently  near  the  door,  surveying  her  askance  with 
aching  heart.  Abner  had  told  him  that  her  life  with  Deacon 
Hailey  had  grown  a  blank  to  her,  and  he  wondered  if  she 
would  recognize  him;  in  the  last  two  years  he  had  shot  up 
from  a  hobbledehoy  into  a  tall,  stalwart  youth. 

When  she  turned  her  head  at  last  and  espied  him  she  leaped 
up  with  a  wild  cry  of  joy,  and  folded  him  in  her  arms. 

"  Davie  !"  she  cried,  rapturously.  "  My  own  Davie  !  At  last ! 
I  didn't  see  your  ship  come  in." 

A  nervous  thrill  ran  down  Matt's  spine  as  he  submitted  to 
her  embrace.  The  separate  tragedies  of  his  parents'  Jives 
seemed  poignantly  knit  together  in  this  supreme  moment. 

"  They're  so  strict  with  me  here,  Davie,"  she  said.  "  Take 
me  away  from  my  folks,  anywhere,  where  we  can  be  happy  and 
free.  I  don't  care  what  they  say  any  more — I  am  so  tired  of 
all  this  humdrum  life." 

Matt  pacified  her  as  best  he  could,  and,  promising  to  arrange 
it  all  soon,  left  her,  his  heart  nigh  breaking.  He  walked  about 
the  bustling  streets  like  one  in  a  dream,  resenting  the  sunshine, 
and  wondering  why  all  these  people  should  be  so  happy. 
Again  that  ancient  image  of  his  father's  dead  face  was  tossed 


EXODUS  131 

up  on  the  waves  of  memory,  to  keep  company  henceforth  with 
the  death-in-life  of  his  mother's  face.  The  breakdown  of  his 
ambition  seemed  a  petty  thing  beside  these  vaster  ironies  of 
human  destiny. 


JSOOfc  HIT.— CHAPTER  I 


IN    LONDON 


ON  a  dull  February  day  a  respectably  clad  steerage  passen- 
ger disembarked  at  Southampton  with  little  luggage  and  great 
hopes.  He  was  only  twenty,  but  he  looked  several  years  older. 
There  were  deep  traces  of  thought  and  suffering  in  the  face, 
bronzed  though  it  was ;  and  despite  the  vigorous  set  of  the 
mouth  and  the  jaw,  the  dark  eyes  were  soft  and  dreamy.  He 
was  clean-shaven  except  for  a  dark-brown  mustache,  which 
combined  with  the  little  tangle  of  locks  on  his  forehead  to 
suggest  the  artistic  temperament,  and  to  repel  the  insinuation 
of  rough  open-air  labor  radiating  from  his  sturdy  frame  and 
bearing. 

Matt  Strang's  foot  had  touched  England  at  last.  Two  long, 
monotonous  years  of  steadfast  endurance,  self-sacrifice,  and 
sordid  economies — two  years  of  portrait  and  sign  painting,  in- 
terrupted by  spells  of  wagon-striping  at  two  and  a  half  dol- 
lars a  day,  had  again  given  him  the  mastery  of  three  hundred 
dollars,  despite  his  despatch  of  five  dollars  a  week  to  Abner 
Preep,  and  of  a  final  subsidy  of  one  hundred  dollars  to  bridge 
over  the  time  till  he  should  have  a  footing  in  England.  Gradu- 
ally the  cloud  of  despondency  had  rolled  off,  the  spring-time  of 
life  and  aspiration  would  not  be  denied,  and  though  the  pity 
and  terror  of  his  mother's  tragedy  had  tamed  his  high  spirit 
and  snapped  the  springs  of  buoyancy,  the  passion  for  painting 
returned  with  an  intensity  that  dulled  him  to  every  appeal  of 
the  blood  in  his  veins ;  and  with  it  a  haunting  fear  that  he 
could  never  live  to  see  London  or  his  artist  uncle,  that  he  would 
die  in  the  flower  of  his  youth,  all  his  possibilities  latent.  So 
impatient  was  he  to  give  this  fear  the  lie  that  he  suffered  a 


IN    LONDON  133 

vexatious  loss  through  his  hurry  to  realize  the  bills  and  the 
goods  in  which  his  art  had  too  often  found  payment.  When 
the  steamer  floundered  into  a  field  of  ice  off  Newfoundland, 
his  semi-superstitious  feeling  wellnigh  amounted  to  a  quiet 
conviction  that  he  would  be  shipwrecked  in  sight  of  port,  the 
three  hundred  dollars  serving  but  to  sink  him  deeper. 

Without  stopping  in  Southampton  to  tempt  Providence,  he 
went  straight  on  to  London,  every  vein  in  him  pulsing  with  fever- 
ish anticipations  of  mysterious  splendors.  The  engine  panted 
in  answering  exultation,  and  the  rattle  of  the  carriages  was  a 
rhythmic  song  of  triumph.  At  last  he  was  approaching  the 
city  of  his  dreams — the  mighty  capital  of  culture  and  civiliza- 
tion, where  Art  was  loved  and  taught  and  honored.  For  some 
days  now  his  whole  being  had  been  set  in  this  key. 

He  sat  at  the  window,  gazing  eagerly  at  the  sunless  land- 
scapes that  raced  past  him.  Gradually  he  became  aware  of  the 
approach  of  the  monstrous  city.  Fields  were  interrupted  by 
houses  ;  later,  houses  were  interrupted  by  fields ;  then  the  rural 
touches  grew  fewer  and  fewer,  and  at  last  he  sped  under  a 
leaden  sky  amid  appalling,  endless,  everlasting  perspectives  of 
chimney-pots  and  sooty  tiles,  and  dingy  houses  and  dead  walls 
and  vomiting  columns  and  gasworks  and  blank-faced  factories 
reeking  with  oppressive  odors — on  and  on  and  on,  as  amid  the 
infinities  of  a  mean  Inferno,  whirring  past  geometrical  rows  of 
murky  backyards  with  dust-bins  and  clothes-lines,  and  fleeting 
glimpses  of  grimy  women  and  shock-headed  children  and  slouch- 
ing men,  thundering  over  bridges  that  spanned  gray  streets 
relieved  by  motley  traffic  and  advertisement  hoardings,  and 
flashing  past  gaunt  mansions  of  poverty — bald  structures  with 
peeling  fronts  and  bleared  windows.  There  was  a  sombre  im- 
pressiveness  in  the  manifold  frowziness,  the  squalid  monotony  ; 
it  was  the  sublime  of  the  sordid.  Fresh  as  Matt  was  from  the 
immensities  of  sea  and  sky,  the  shabbiness  of  the  spectacle 
caught  at  his  throat ;  he  thought  chokingly  of  the  unnumbered, 
unnoticed  existences  dragging  dismally  along  within  those  bleak, 
congested  barracks. 

What  had  all  this  to  do  with  Art  ?  The  glow  of  his  blood 
died  away,  to  be  rekindled  only  by  the  seething  streets  into 


134  THE    MASTER 

which  he  emerged  from  the  clangorous  maze  of  Waterloo  Sta- 
tion; the  throb  of  tumultuous  life  that  beat  as  a  drum  and  stirred 
the  blood  as  a  trumpet.  Yet  he  had  not  come  up  to  conquer 
London,  but  to  sit  at  its  feet.  His  bitter  experience  of  life  had 
destroyed  every  vestige  of  cocksureness,  almost  of  confidence, 
leaving  him  shy  and  sometimes  appalled  at  his  own  daring,  as 
he  realized  the  possibilities  of  self-delusion.  He  knew  that 
fame  and  money  were  the  guerdons  of  Art,  but  these  were  only 
indirectly  in  his  mind.  If  they  sometimes  flashed  to  his  heart 
in  intoxicating  instants  of  secret  hope,  he  was  too  full  of  the 
consciousness  of  his  disadvantages  and  imperfections  to  think 
much  of  anything  beyond  getting  the  necessary  training.  Far 
down  the  vista  of  thought  and  years  lay  this  rosy  rim  of  splen- 
dor, a  faint  haze  dimly  discerned,  but  the  joy  of  learning  and 
practising  his  art  was  the  essence  of  his  yearning.  And  yet 
there  were  moments,  like  this  of  feeling  London  under  his  foot 
for  the  first  time,  when  a  consciousness  of  power  welled  up  in 
his  soul — a  sense  of  overflowing  energy  and  immovable  purpose 
that  lifted  him  high  above  the  crowd  of  shadows. 

Escaping  the  touts  and  cabmen,  he  carried  his  valise  across 
a  great  noiseful  bridge  to  the  nearest  inexpensive-looking  hotel, 
intending  to  secure  a  base  of  operations  from  which  to  recon- 
noitre London  before  looking  up  his  uncle.  But  though  he 
was  at  once  booked  for  a  room,  the  genteel  air  of  the  place,  with 
its  well-dressed  customers  and  white-tied  waiters,  terrified  him 
with  the  prevision  of  a  portentous  bill.  He  would  have  backed 
out  at  once  had  he  dared,  but,  he  thought,  now  that  he  was  in 
for  it,  he  would  give  it  a  week's  trial.  He  took  only  his  break- 
fasts there,  however,  though  the  unnatural  hour  at  which  he 
took  them  made  him  an  object  of  suspicion.  He  seemed  al- 
ways on  the  point  of  catching  an  early  train.  His  other  meals 
were  taken  at  those  modest  restaurants  where  twopence  is  not 
a  tip,  but  the  price  of  a  dish,  and  the  menu  is  cut  up  into  slips 
and  pasted  across  the  shop-window. 

His  first  visit  on  the  day  of  his  arrival  was  to  the  National 
Gallery,  not  only  to  fulfil  a  cherished  dream,  but  to  see  his 
uncle's  pictures,  to  talk  of  which  might  smooth  the  meeting. 
But  he  could  nowhere  come  across  the  works  of  Matthew  Strang, 


IN    LONDON  135 

and  a  catalogue  he  could  not  afford ;  and  he  soon  forgot  the 
unseen  pictures  in  the  emotions  excited  by  the  seen,  which 
plunged  him  into  alternate  heats  of  delight  and  chills  of  despair. 

Despair  alone  possessed  him  at  first  in  his  passage  through 
the  Florentine  and  Sienese  rooms.  The  symbolic  figures  of 
Catholicism  had  scant  appeal  for  a  soul  which  in  its  emergence 
from  Puritan  swaddlings  had  not  opened  out  to  medievalism, 
and  the  strange  draughtsmanship  blinded  him  to  everything 
else.  If  Margaritone  or  even  Botticelli  was  Art,  then  his  ideas 
must  be  even  cruder  than  he  had  feared.  He  was  relieved  to 
find,  as  he  continued  his  progress,  that  it  must  be  the  Madonnas 
that  were  crude,  for  he  was  apparently  following  the  evolution 
of  Art.  But  the  sense  of  his  own  superior  technique  was  brief — 
despair  came  back  by  another  route.  Before  the  later  masters 
he  was  reduced  to  a  worshipper,  thrilled  to  tears.  And,  some- 
what to  his  own  astonishment,  it  was  not  only  the  poetic  and 
imaginative  that  compelled  this  religious  ecstasy ;  his  soul  was 
astrain  for  high  vision,  yet  it  was  seized  at  once  by  Moroni's 
"  Portrait  of  a  Tailor,"  and  by  the  exquisite  modelling — though 
he  did  not  know  the  word  for  it — of  the  head  in  his  "  Portrait 
of  an  Ecclesiastic."  To  the  young  Nova  Scotian,  who  had  so 
chafed  at  having  to  paint  uncouth  farmers,  it  was  an  illumina- 
tion to  see  how  in  the  hands  of  a  Teniers,  or,  above  all,  a  Rem- 
brandt, the  commonplace  could  be  transfigured  by  force  of 
technique  and  sympathy.  And  yet  he  surrendered  more  will- 
ingly to  the  romantic,  held  by  the  later  "Philip  the  Fourth" 
of  Velasquez,  as  much  for  its  truculent  kingly  theme  as  for  the 
triumphantly  subtle  coloring,  which  got  the  effects  of  model- 
ling almost  without  the  aid  of  shadows.  And  the  fever  of  in- 
spiration and  mastery,  the  sense  of  flowing  paint  which  per- 
vaded and  animated  the  portrait  of  the  Admiral,  was  the  more 
entrancing  because  of  the  romantic  figure  of  the  Spanish  sailor ; 
while  beside  Rembrandt's  "  Jewish  Merchant,"  with  its  haunting 
suggestion  of  suffering  and  the  East,  even  the  fine  Vandyke,  its 
neighbor,  seemed  to  lose  in  poetry. 

The  brilliant  and  seizing  qualities  had  his  first  vote ;  lumi- 
nosity of  color,  richness  of  handling,  grip  of  composition — all 
that  leaped  to  the  eye.  Being  alone,  he  had  the  courage  of 


136  THE    MASTER 

his  first  impressions  ;  and  having  always  been  alone,  he  had  the 
broadness  that  is  clipped  by  school.  The  beautiful  sense  of  form 
and  landscape  in  Titian's  "  Christ  Appearing  to  Mary  Magda- 
len" captivated  him,  though  for  subject  he  preferred  the  "  Bac- 
chus and  Ariadne."  He  was  equally  for  Murillo's  "  St.  John 
and  the  Lamb,"  and  for  Andrea  del  Sarto's  portrait  of  himself  ; 
for  Palma's  Christ-like  "  Portrait  of  a  Painter."  He  wondered 
wistfully  whence  Bassano's  "  Good  Samaritan  "  took  the  glow 
of  its  color,  or  Greuze's  "  Head  of  a  Girl "  its  pathetic  grace,  and 
he  was  as  struck  by  the  fine  personal,  if  sometimes  unsure, 
touch  of  Gainsborough  as  by  the  vigorous  handling  and  extraor- 
dinary painting  force  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  whose  children 
alone  he  found  unreservedly  delicious. 

Amid  many  sound  if  superficial  judgments  were  many  crude 
admirations  and  condemnations,  destined  to  undergo  almost 
annual  revision.  At  the  present  stage  of  his  growth,  for  ex- 
ample, the  charming  Correggio  was  his  ideal  of  an  artist — to 
wit,  a  skilful  painter,  suffusing  poetical  themes  with  poetical 
feeling. 

Subject  counted  for  him :  a  sympathetic  theme  seemed  to 
him  of  the  essence  of  Art. 

But  the  craftsman  in  him  was  not  to  be  suppressed. 
When  he  was  absorbed  in  Raphael's  "  Pope  Julius  II.,"  his 
practical  self  suggested  that  the  reds  needed  varnishing  to 
bring  up  the  head  from  the  background ;  and  though  the  fine 
feeling  of  Joseph  Ribera's  "Dead  Christ"  awoke  long-dormant 
chords  of  religious  emotion,  what  moved  him  most  was  the 
modelling  of  the  foot  caressed  by  the  Magdalen's  hair.  His 
emotion  subsided  in  the  study  of  the  painter's  mannerisms, 
his  heavy  blacks  and  shadows.  His  delight  in  the  luminous 
quality  of  Bordone's  "  Portrait  of  a  Lady  "  was  modified  by  an 
uneasy  conviction  that  the  left  hand  was  unnatural.  Even  in 
Moroni's  portraits  the  hands  seemed  slightly  too  small.  Though 
he  was  astonished  at  the  triviality  of  subject  in  Gerard  Dow's 
"Fish  and  Poultry  Shop,"  he  must  fain  admire  the  exquisite 
quality  of  the  still-life  passages  and  the  loving  patience  of  the 
infinite  touches;  in  Van  Mieris'  treatment  of  the  same  subject 
he  found  a  resentful  pleasure  in  the  discovery  that,  despite  the 


IN    LONDON  137 

marvellous  accuracy  of  the  dish  of  fish  and  the  vegetables,  the 
woman's  head  was  too  little,  her  left  arm  too  heavy  and  too  big 
for  the  right,  her  flesh  more  like  fish,  and  her  very  cat  purring 
in  contented  ignorance  of  its  wrong  proportions. 

In  the  landscape  galleries  he  was  puzzled  by  the  old  classic  land- 
scape ;  the  occasional  fineness  of  line,  the  masterly  distribution  of 
masses,  did  not  counterbalance  his  sense  of  unreality  before  these 
brown  trees  and  sombre  backgrounds.  Where  were  the  sunlight 
and  atmosphere  of  Nature  as  he  had  known  her,  the  sky  over 
all,  subtly  interfused  with  all  the  living  hues,  the  fresh,  open-air 
feeling  which  he  had  tried  to  put  into  his  own  humble  sketches 
of  Nova-Scotian  forest,  and  by  virtue  of  which  he  found  more 
of  the  great  mother  in  Peter  de  Hoogh's  pictures  of  the  courts 
of  Dutch  houses  than  in  all  the  templed  woodlands  of  the  pre- 
Gainsborough  period  ?  But  Constable  revealed  to  him  the  soul  of 
loveliness  of  rural  England,  setting  in  his  heart  a  pensive  yearn- 
ing for  those  restful  woods  and  waters ;  Crome  touched  his  im- 
agination with  the  sweep  of  his  lonely  heaths ;  and  Turner  daz- 
zled him  with  irisations  of  splendid  dream,  and  subdued  him 
with  the  mystery  and  poetry  of  sea  and  sky. 

And  the  total  effect  of  this  first  look  round  was  inspiration. 
Over  all  the  whirling  confusion  of  the  appeal  of  so  many 
schools  and  ages,  over  all  his  bewilderment  before  early  Italian 
pictures  that  seemed  to  him  badly  drawn  and  modern  English 
that  seemed  banal,  over  all  his  dispiriting  diffidence  before  the 
masterpieces,  was  an  exultant  sense  of  brotherhood,  as  of  a  soul 
come  home  at  last.  There  were  pictures  to  which  he  returned 
again  and  again  with  a  feeling  of  reverential  kinship,  a  secret 
audacious  voice  whispering  that  he  understood  those  who  had 
painted  them  —  that  he  too  was  of  their  blood  and  race,  though 
come  from  very  far,  and  lonely  and  unknown ;  that  he  too  had 
thrilled  with  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  things;  that  he  too 
had  seen  visions  and  heard  voices.  Quitting  the  gallery  with 
regret  tempered  by  the  prospect  of  many  magic  hours  in  the 
society  of  its  treasures,  he  found  out  the  whereabouts  of  the 
Limners'  Club,  and  took  his  way  towards  Bond  Street,  every 
sense  thrilling  with  vivid  perceptions,  receiving  pleasant  impres- 
sions from  the  shop-windows,  exhilarated  by  the  pretty  women 


138  THE    MASTER 

that  brushed  by  him  with  a  perfume  of  fashion,  and  keenly  en- 
joying the  roar  of  the  town. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  club  he  inquired  for  Mr.  Matthew 
Strang.  The  door-keeper  eyed  him  surlily,  and  said  there  was 
no  such  member.  The  world  grew  suddenly  dark  and  bleak 
again.  He  stammered  in  piteous  apology  that  Mr.  Strang  had 
given  him  that  address ;  and  the  janitor,  a  whit  softened  by  his 
evident  distress,  admitted  that  Mr.  Strang  was  sometimes  about 
the  club,  and  volunteered  to  send  the  boy  to  see — an  offer  which 
Matt  gratefully  Accepted  with  a  sense  of  taking  alms.  But  Mr. 
Strang  was  not  on  the  premises,  and  Matt  was  further  driven  to 
inquire '  where  he  could  be  found.  The  door-keeper,  tired  of 
him,  replied  to  the  effect  that  he  was  not  Mr.  Strang's  keeper, 
and  that  it  was  not  unusual  to  look  for  gentlemen  in  their  own 
homes;  whereupon  Matt  turned  miserably  away,  too  disheart- 
ened to  ask  where  his  uncle's  own  home  was  situate,  and  feel- 
ing that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  keep  watch  over  the 
club  door  till  the  great  painter  should  appear.  He  lingered 
about  at  a  safe  distance  (for  to  be  seen  by  the  door-keeper  were 
terrible),  scanning  with  eager  glances  the  faces  of  the  few  men 
who  passed  through  the  swinging  glass  doors,  his  imagination 
glorifying  them,  and  seeing  rather  halos  than  silk  hats  on  their 
heads.  But  at  last  the  futility  of  his  sentinelship  dawned  upon 
him ;  he  could  not  be  sure  of  recognizing  his  uncle ;  he  could 
not  accost  the  celestials  and  question  them ;  he  must  come  again 
and  again  till  he  found  his  uncle  at  the  club.  The  thought 
of  facing  the  door-keeper  made  him  flinch,  but  he  knew  the 
road  to  Art  was  thorny  and  precipitous. 

It  was  three  o'clock,  but  he  had  forgotten  to  lunch.  Now 
that  his  emotions  had  been  chilled,  he  remembered  he  was 
hungry.  He  looked  around  in  vain  for  a  mean  eating-house, 
then  reluctantly  slipped  into  a  public-house  and  ordered  a  glass 
of  ale  and  something  brown  and  dumpy  which  he  saw  under  a 
glass  cover.  The  wench  who  served  him  smiled  so  amiably 
that  he  was  emboldened  to  ask  if  by  chance  she  knew  where 
Matthew  Strang  lived.  Her  smile  died  away,  and  nothing  suc- 
ceeded it. 

"  Matthew  Strang,  the  painter,"  said  Matt,  with  a  ghastly  sus- 


IN    LONDON  139 

picion  that  the  girl  did  not  even  know  the  name.  London  to 
him  meant  largely  Matthew  Strang;  it  was  to  Matthew  Strang 
that  he  had  taken  his  ticket  and  booked  his  passage,  it  was  to 
get  to  Matthew  Strang  that  he  had  starved  and  pinched  him- 
self, and  it  depressed  him  to  discover  the  limitations  of  fame — 
to  find  that  Matthew  Strang  was  not  hung  in  the  air  like  Moham- 
med's coffin,  'twixt  earth  and  heaven,  for  all  to  see. 

"  There's  the  Directory,"  said  the  girl,  lugging  it  down  when 
she  perceived  that  the  good-looking  young  man  with  the  curi- 
ous drawling  accent  was  not  quizzing  her.  "  You'll  find  paint- 
ers in  the  Trade  Directory." 

The  barmaid's  satire  was  unconscious.  Understanding  the 
bulky  red  volume  but  dimly,  Matt  hunted  up  "  Strang  "  in  the 
general  section.  He  was  surprised  to  see  there  was  more  than 
one  person  of  that  name.  But  fortunately  there  was  only  one 
Matthew  Strang,  and  he  lived  in  a  side  street  off  Cavendish 
Square.  Warmly  thanking  the  girl,  Matt  gulped  down  his  ale 
and  hurried  out  to  inquire  the  way,  munching  the  relics  of  the 
cake  as  he  hastened  towards  the  long-elusive  goal.  Very  soon, 
scanning  the  numbers,  his  eye  flashed  and  his  heart  leaped  up. 
There  it  was — the  magic  name — actually  'twixt  earth  and  heaven, 
painted  above  a  shop-window.  Surprised,  he  came  to  a  stand-still. 

The  window  was  one  which  would  have  arrested  him  in  any 
case,  for  it  was  illumined  with  paintings  and  engravings,  and 
through  the  doorway  Matt  saw  enchanting  stacks  of  pictures 
mounting  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  the  side  wall  was  a  gallery 
of  oils  and  water-colors,  and  an  aroma  of  art  and  refinement  and 
riches  seemed  over  everything,  from  the  gold  of  the  frames  of 
the  oil-colors  to  the  chaste  creamy  margins  of  the  engravings. 
He  entered  the  shop  with  beating  heart.  His  eyes  lit  first  on  a 
sweet-faced  matron  in  a  cap  standing  at  the  far  end  of  the  shop, 
reverentially  surveying  a  faded  "  Holy  Family,"  and  while  he 
was  wondering  whether  she  was  the  artist's  wife,  a  dapper 
young  gentleman,  installed  behind  a  broad  desk  near  the  door, 
startled  him  by  asking  his  business. 

He  coughed  uneasily,  overcome  by  sudden  diffidence.  The 
series  of  barriers  between  him  and  his  uncle  gave  the  great 
painter  an  appalling  aloofness. 


140  THE    MASTER 

"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Matthew  Strang,"  he  stammered. 

The  dapper  young  gentleman  looked  inquiringly  towards  the 
sweet-faced  matron.  "  Can  this  gentleman  see  Mr.  Strang,  Ma- 
dame ?"  he  said.  Matt  noticed  that  he  wore  a  pearl  horseshoe 
in  his  cravat. 

"  Certainly,  sir.  Be  seated,"  said  the  lady,  with  grave  cour- 
tesy and  a  pleasant  touch  of  foreign  accent,  such  as  Matt  had 
heard  in  the  French  families  of  Acadia.  She  disappeared  for  a 
moment,  and  returned  in  the  wake  of  a  saturnine-looking  elderly 
gentleman,  with  interrogative  eyebrows,  a  pointed  beard,  and  a 
velvet  jacket,  the  first  sight  of  whom  gave  Matt  the  heart-sick- 
ness of  yet  another  disappointment.  But  though  his  keen  eye 
soon  snipped  off  the  pointed  beard  and  wiped  off  the  sallowness 
of  civilization,  revealing  the  David  Strang  interblent  with  the 
Matthew,  his  heart-sickness  remained.  The  gap  between  him 
and  this  fine  gentleman  and  great  artist  seemed  too  great  to  be 
bridged  over  thus  suddenly.  He  became  acutely  conscious  of 
his  homely  clothes,  of  his  coarse,  unlettered  speech,  of  the 
low,  menial  occupations  he  had  followed;  he  saw  himself  furl- 
ing the  sail  and  carrying  the  hod  and  sawing  the  wood ;  he 
felt  himself  far  below  the  dapper  young  shopman  with  the 
pearl  horse -shoe,  and  his  throat  grew  parched  and  his  eyes 
misty. 

"  Good  -  afternoon,  sir,"  said  his  uncle,  rubbing  his  hands 
with  chilling  geniality.  "What  can  I  have  the  pleasure  of  do- 
ing for  you  ?" 

In  that  instant  Matt  perceived  all  the  perversity  of  which  he 
had  been  guilty,  he  remembered  he  had  flown  in  the  face  of  his 
uncle's  kind  advice,  and  had  not  even  apprised  him  of  his  de- 
parture from  America. 

"  I  want  to  buy  some  colors,"  he  faltered. 

His  uncle's  eyebrows  mounted.  "  We  do  not  sell  colors, 
young  man,"  he  said,  frigidly. 

"  I  thought — "  Matt  stammered. 

Matthew  Strang  contemptuously  turned  on  his  heel  and  with- 
drew. His  nephew  lingered  desperately  in  the  shop,  without 
the  strength  either  to  go  or  to  stay. 

The  lady,  who  had  half  followed  her  husband,  turned  back  lies- 


IN    LONDON  141 

itatingly,  and  with  reassuring  sweetness  said  :  "  You  will  get 
colors  near  at  hand,  in  Oxford  Street.  We  only  sell  pictures." 

Under  her  penetrating  sympathy  Matt  found  courage  to  say : 
"  I'm  sorry  Mr.  Strang  got  streaked." 

"  Streaked  ?"  echoed  Madame,  opening  her  eyes,  as  with  a 
vision  of  broadcloth  brushing  against  wet  canvases. 

"  I  mean  angry,"  said  Matt,  confusion  streaking  his  own 
face  with  red. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  now,"  said  madam,  sweetly.  "  It's  an 
American  word." 

"  Yes ;  it  was  in  America  that  I  heard  of  Mr.  Strang,"  he  re- 
plied, slowly,  striving  to  accentuate  his  words,  as  though  he 
were  reading  them  from  a  school-book. 

"Indeed?"     Madame  flushed  now. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  of  his  fame  as  a  painter." 

"  Ah."  Her  eyes  sparkled.  Roses  leaped  into  her  blond 
cheeks.  "  I  always  told  him  his  work  was  admirable,"  she 
cried,  in  exultant  excitement,  "  but  he  is  so  easily  discour- 
aged." 

Matt  thrilled  with  a  sense  of  the  man's  greatness. 

"  So  you  see,"  he  said,  with  a  quaver  of  emotion  in  his  voice, 
"  I  was  just  wild  to  see  him." 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  cried  Madame,  with  a  charming  smile.  "  I 
will  go  and  tell  my  husband.  He  really  must  see  you.  Mat- 
thew," she  called  out,  tremulously,  fluttering  towards  the  pas- 
sage. 

The  saturnine  figure  in  the  velvet  coat  descended  again. 

"  You  must  talk  to  the  young  gentleman,  dear.  He  has 
heard  of  your  fame  in  America." 

Matthew  Strang's  interrogative  eyebrows  reached  their  high- 
est point,  and  Matt's  face  got  more  streaked  than  ever.  He  felt 
he  was  in  a  false  position. 

"  I  heard  of  you  from  my  father,"  he  said,  hurriedly.  "  What 
is  the  price  of  this  ?"  he  asked  in  his  confusion,  half  turning 
towards  the  shopman. 

"  This  etching  of  Millet's  *  Angelus  '  ?  Three  guineas,  sir." 
He  added,  gauging  his  man,  "  We  have  a  photogravure  of  the 
same  subject — a  little  smaller — for  half  a  guinea." 


142  THE    MASTER 

"  Your  father !"  repeated  Mr.  Strang,  gruffly.  "  He  was  a 
brother  artist,  I  presume." 

Matt  would  have  given  much  to  say  he  was  not  an  artist,  but 
a  brother.  But  he  replied  instead :  "  No,  not  exactly.  He  was 
a  captain."  He  felt  somehow  as  if  the  whole  guilt  of  his  fa- 
ther's calling  rested  upon  himself,  and  it  was  mean  of  him  to 
cross  the  Atlantic  to  impose  some  of  it  on  the  dignified  figure 
before  him. 

"  Oh,  I  love  soldiers,"  murmured  Madame  Strang. 

Matt  felt  things  were  now  entangled  beyond  the  possibility  of 
even  future  extrication,  so  he  desperately  consented  to  purchase 
the  photogravure,  threw  down  a  sovereign,  and,  snatching  up  the 
change  and  the  picture-roll,  hurried  from  the  establishment. 

"  What  a  charming  young  man  !"  said  Madame  Strang. 

But  Matthew  Strang  tapped  his  forehead  significantly. 

"You  always  will  run  yourself  down,  dear,"  murmured 
Madame. 

"Josephine,"  replied  Matthew  Strang,  in  low,  solemn  tones, 
"  the  fellow  is  either  a  fool  or  a  rogue." 

"He's  left  sixpence  on  the  desk,"  broke  in  the  voice  of  the 
shopman. 

"  Ha !  a  fool !  It  is  enough  for  me  to  live  in  my  son.  He 
has  advantages  which  I  was  denied." 

"  The  dear  boy,"  breathed  Madame. 

The  extravagant  purchaser  of  the  "  Angelus "  divided  the 
rest  of  his  week  between  the  National  Gallery,  where  he  con- 
cluded his  uncle  had  not  yet  been  canonized,  and  the  streets  of 
London,  which  he  explored  fearlessly.  In  a  few  days  of  indus- 
trious investigation  he  saw  more  than  many  a  Londoner  sees  in 
a  lifetime.  He  had  experience  of  the  features  and  cook-shops 
of  Peckham,  Rotherhithe,  Clapton,  Westminster,  Covent  Gar- 
den, the  East  India  Docks,  the  Tower,  wandering  wherever  the 
shapeless  city  stretched  its  lubber  limbs,  and  seeing  things  and 
places  that  made  him  glad  of  the  protection  of  the  pistol  he 
carried  in  his  hip-pocket.  The  very  formlessness  of  the  city 
fascinated  even  while  it  dazed  him.  He  ceased  to  wonder  that 
artists  found  inspiration  in  this  atmosphere,  in  which  the  fog 
itself  seemed  but  the  visible  symbol  of  the  innumerable  myste- 


IN    LONDON  143 

rious  existences  swarming  in  its  obscure  vastness.  The  unex- 
pected was  everywhere ,  green  closes  in  the  heart  of  commerce, 
quiet  quadrangles  in  the  byways  of  Fleet  Street,  quaint  old 
churches  by  the  river-side,  bawling  market-places  behind  stately 
mansions,  great  parks  set  in  deserts  of  arid  poverty,  bustling 
docks  hidden  away  in  back  streets,  and  elegant  villas  at  the  end 
of  drab,  dismal,  long-trailing  East- end  thoroughfares,  redolent 
of  slush  and  cabbage -leaves  and  public-houses  and  fried  fish. 
Miles  were  of  light  account  to  one  who  had  lived  in  a  land  of 
great  spaces,  yet  Matt  was  wearied  by  the  lengthy  sweep  of 
the  great  arteries  and  the  multiplicity  of  their  ramifications,  by 
this  vastness  that  was  but  reiterated  narrowness  in  its  lack  of  the 
free  open  horizons  to  which  his  eye  was  used. 

But  the  Titanic  city  awoke  strange  responses  in  his  soul ;  some- 
thing in  him  vibrated  to  the  impulse  of  the  endless  panorama. 
Often  his  fingers  itched  for  the  brush,  as  if  to  translate  into  color 
and  line  all  this  huge  pageant  of  life  ;  for  the  spell  of  youthful 
poesy  was  still  on  his  eyes,  and  if  he  could  not  see  London  as  he 
had  seen  his  native  fields  and  sky  and  ocean,  all  fresh  and  pure 
and  beautiful,  if  in  the  crude  day  its  sordid  streets  seemed  laby- 
rinths in  an  underworld,  unlovely,  intolerable,  there  were  atmos- 
pheres and  lights  in  which  it  still  loomed  upon  his  vision  through 
the  glamour  of  fantasy,  and  chiefly  at  night,  when  the  mighty 
city  brooded  in  sombre  majesty,  magnificently  transfigured  by 
the  darkness,  and  the  solemn  river  stretched  in  twinkling  splen- 
dor between  enchanted  warehouses,  or  shadowed  itself  with  the 
inverted  architecture  of  historic  piles,  or  lapped  against  the 
gray  old  Tower  dreaming  of  ancient  battle.  But  he  could  only 
take  rough  pencil  or  mental  notes  of  the  romance  of  it  all, 
and  it  was  almost  always  the  fantastic  that  touched  his  imagi- 
nation and  found  expression  in  the  pictorial  short-hand  of  his 
sketch-book  —  lurid  splotches  of  sunset  against  tall,  grimy 
chimneys;  tawny  barges  gliding  over  black  canal -waters  shot 
with  quivering  trails  of  liquid  gold  from  the  morning  sun  ; 
ragged  Rembrandtesque  figures  asleep  under  glooming  railway 
arches,  over  which  trains  flew  with  shining  windows  ;  street 
perspectives  at  twilight,  with  strange,  livid  skies  ;  filmy  evening 
rain  blurring  the  lights  of  the  town  to  a  tender  haze ;  late  om- 


144  THE    MASTER 

nibuses  tearing  by  glistering,  moonlit  pavements,  and  casting 
the  shadows  of  the  outside  passengers  on  the  sleeping  houses ; 
foggy  forenoons,  with  the  eye  of  day  inflamed  and  swollen  in 
the  yellow  heaven.  With  his  purchase  of  the  "  Angelus,"  on 
the  other  hand,  he  was  not  greatly  taken,  despite  its  sentiment. 
He  had  seen  too  much  of  peasants ;  he  had  himself  stooped  over 
the  furrows  when  his  heart  was  elsewhere ;  his  soul  turned  from 
the  mean  drudgeries  and  miseries  of  the  human  lot,  yearning 
for  the  flash  of  poetry,  the  glow  of  romance,  the  light  of  dream. 

In  spite  of  his  boarding  out,  his  bill  for  the  week's  bed,  break- 
fast, and  attendance  reached  as  far  as  £1  195.  3d. — a  terrifying 
total  that  drove  him  headlong  into  the  frowsiest  coffee-house 
to  be  found  in  the  slums  round  Holborn.  Here  he  spent  a 
wretched,  interminable  night,  provoked  by  insects  and  mysteri- 
ous noises  into  dressing  again  and  keeping  his  hand  on  his  pis- 
tol as  he  sat  shivering  on  a  chair.  The  staircases  resounded 
with  the  incessant  tramp  of  feet  mounting  and  descending,  and 
there  were  bursts  of  rowdy  laughter  and  blows  and  tipsy  jeers, 
and  once  his  locked  door  was  shaken,  and  Matt  thought  he  had 
fallen  into  a  thieves'  den,  and  trembled  for  his  savings.  In  the 
morning  he  called  for  his  account  and  left,  not  without  having 
discovered  the  real  character  of  the  place  into  which  he  had 
strayed.  After  some  trouble  he  chanced  upon  a  clean  furnished 
room  in  the  same  neighborhood  for  four  shillings  and  sixpence 
a  week,  attendance  included.  It  was  a  back  room  on  the  third 
floor,  and  it  gave  on  a  perspective  of  tiles  and  shabby  plaster, 
and  the  evidences  of  jerry-building  in  the  doors  and  windows 
discomforted  the  whilom  joiner's  apprentice  ;  but  he  calculated 
that  for  less  than  twenty  of  his  pounds  he  would  have  a  foot- 
hold in  London  for  a  year.  He  wellnigh  cried  to  think  of  the 
weeks  he  had  lost  in  that  week  of  hotel  luxury.  On  sixpence 
a  day  he  could  sustain  life.  On  ninepence  he  could  live  in 
clover.  Why,  even  making  lavish  allowance  for  the  technical 
expenses  of  which  his  uncle  had  warned  him,  he  would  easily 
be  able  to  stay  on  for  a  whole  year.  In  a  year — a  year  of 
ceaseless  painting  —  what  might  he  not  achieve? 

Ah,  what  hopes  harbored,  what  dreams  hovered  in  that  bleak 
little  room !  The  vague,  troubled  rumor  of  the  great  city  rolled 


GRAINGER'S  145 

up  in  inspiring  mystery  ;  the  light  played  with  instructive  fas- 
cination upon  the  sooty  tiles  ;  high  over  the  congested  chaos  of 
house-tops  he  saw  the  evening  mists  rifted  with  sunset,  and  on 
starry  nights  he  touched  the  infinite  through  his  rickety  casement. 


CHAPTER  II 
GRAINGER'S 

ONLY,  where  to  learn  ?  There  was  the  rub.  He  had  looked 
to  his  uncle  to  put  him  in  the  way  of  instantly  acquiring  art, 
and  here  had  he  wasted  a  week  without  acquiring  even  infor- 
mation. But  in  the  British  Museum  he  lighted  upon  young 
men  and  women  drawing  from  the  antique,  and  entering  into 
conversation  with  the  shabbiest  of  the  men,  who  was  working  at 
the  head  of  a  Roman  emperor  in  chalk,  pecking  at  it  with  a 
pointed  pellet  of  bread,  he  learned  that  the  Roman  emperor's 
head  was  intended,  in  alliance  with  the  torso  of  a  Greek  river- 
god,  to  force  the  doors  of  the  Royal  Academy  Schools,  the 
privileges  of  which  gratuitous  establishment  the  aspirant  duly 
recounted.  But  the  examination  would  not  take  place  for  some 
time,  and  Matt,  though  he  felt  it  hard  to  have  to  pay  fees  else- 
where in  the  meantime,  was  secretly  pleased  at  being  able  to 
shelve  temporarily  the  thought  of  partaking  in  this  examination, 
for  the  Roman  emperor's  head  was  appallingly  stippled,  and 
the  student  said  he  had  been  at  work  on  it  for  four  months,  and 
evidently  meditated  touching  and  retouching  it  till  the  very  eve 
of  the  examination.  Matt  did  not  think  he  could  ever  muster 
sufficient  interest  in  Roman  emperors  to  live  with  the  head  of 
one  for  more  than  a  week.  His  heart  sank  at  the  thought  of 
what  he  might  have  to  go  through  to  please  professors  and  ex- 
aminers, but  he  would  have  willingly  tried  his  hand  at  copying 
a  bust  had  not  the  student  informed  him  he  must  apply  for  per- 
mission and  give  a  reference  to  a  reputable  householder.  With 
the  exception  of  his  unclaimed  uncle,  Matt  knew  no  one,  repu- 
table or  disreputable,  householder  or  vagrant.  But  he  obtained 
from  the  shabby  delineator  of  the  Roman  emperor  the  address 
10  „ 


146  THE    MASTER 

of  a  cheap,  good  art-school,  though  he  found,  to  his  dismay, 
that  even  at  the  cheapest  he  could  only  afford  to  take  the  night 
class,  from  seven  to  ten,  three  times  a  week.  He  saw  he  would 
have  to  study  form  apart  from  natural  color,  and  apply  during 
the  days  the  preachings  of  the  three  nights.  Impatient,  and 
holding  his  paint-box  tight  against  his  palpitating  heart,  he  set 
out  that  very  night  to  join  the  class,  but  losing  himself  in  a 
labyrinth  of  squares  exactly  alike,  did  not  find  the  school  till 
half -past  seven.  Passing  through  an  open  door  marked  "  Grain  - 
ger's  Academy  of  Art "  in  ugly  and  faded  lettering,  he  found 
himself  in  a  long,  gloomy  passage  that  led  away  from  the  rest 
of  the  house ;  and,  following  the  indication  of  a  dirty  finger 
painted  on  the  wall,  he  stole  cautiously  along  the  deserted  cor- 
ridor, which  grew  momentarily  drearier  as  it  receded  from  the 
naked  jet  of  gas  in  the  doorway,  till  it  reached  its  duskiest  at 
the  point  where  it  was  bordered  by  a  pair  of  cloak-rooms.  Matt 
peered  eagerly  into  their  shadowy  depths,  which  seemed  to  con- 
tain coals  and  a  bicycle  and  litter,  as  well  as  clothing,  and  to  ex- 
hale a  flavor  of  ancient  stuffiness ;  but  he  could  detect  no  move- 
ment among  the  congested  overcoats.  At  last,  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,  he  stumbled  against  a  boy  in  buttons  kneeling  with  his 
eye  to  the  key-hole  of  a  door.  Apologetically  he  asked  the  boy 
if  this  was  Grainger's,  and  the  boy,  jumping  up  quickly,  told 
him  to  walk  in,  and  retreated  in  haste. 

Matt  opened  the  door.  A  wave  of  insufferably  hot  air,  reek- 
ing of  tobacco,  smote  his  face  and  his  nostrils ;  a  glare  of  light 
dazzled  his  eyes.  He  was  vaguely  aware  of  a  great  square  room 
crowded  with  young  men  in  uncouth  straw  hats  sitting  or  stand- 
ing at  work  in  their  shirt-sleeves  before  easels ;  but  the  whole 
scene  was  a  blur  compared  with  the  central  point  that  stood 
out  in  disconcerting  clearness.  Immediately  facing  him,  on  a 
platform  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  a  nude  woman  was  stand- 
ing. He  started  back  shocked,  and  was  meditating  flight,  when 
a  student  near  him  growled  to  him  to  shnt  the  door.  He 
obeyed,  and  had  an  instant  of  awful  loneliness  and  embarrass- 
ment amid  this  crowd  of  gifted  strangers,  in  the  rear  of  which 
he  stood,  paint-box  under  arm,  wondering  why  nobody  chal- 
lenged his  entry,  and  where  Grainger  was.  Turning  to  look  for 


147 

him,  he  upset  a  rickety  easel  and  a  disengaged  stool,  both  of 
which  seemed  to  topple  over  at  the  slightest  touch.  But  his 
awkwardness  saved  the  situation ;  the  owner  of  the  easel  was 
good-natured  and,  perceiving  he  was  a  new-comer,  bade  him 
seat  himself  on  the  stool  and  fix  up  an  easel  next  to  him,  the 
number  painted  on  the  oilcloth  of  the  floor  being  unappropri- 
ated. As  Matt  had  no  canvas,  he  even  went  outside  to  buy  him 
one  for  two-and-ninepence  from  the  boy  in  buttons.  Matt 
handed  him  the  money  with  a  feeling  of  eternal  gratitude. 

While  his  amiable  fellow  was  thus  busied  in  his  behalf,  the 
new  student's  keen  eye  absorbed  the  scene  in  detail.  A  great 
square  dusty  room,  rimmed  as  to  the  roof  by  skylights,  and 
lighted  to  -  night  from  above  by  a  great  circular  gas  -  flare  ; 
round  two  of  the  walls,  patched  here  and  there  by  the  crum- 
bling away  of  the  plaster,  ran  a  rack  on  which  innumerable 
canvases  and  drawing-boards  were  stacked,  and  underneath  the 
rack  a  streak  of  wood  permeated  the  plaster  to  hold  the  pins  by 
which  crude  sketches  were  fastened  up,  evidently  for  criticism ; 
here  and  there  hung  notices  of  the  meetings  of  Grainger's 
Sketching  Club,  mixed  up  with  photographs  and  advertisements 
of  studios,  and  of  a  drawing  competition  instituted  by  the 
proprietors  of  a  soap,  and  the  mural  ornamentation  was  com- 
pleted by  clever  nude  studies,  rapid  tours  de  force  of  the  visiting 
artists,  as  Matt  discovered  later;  everywhere  about  the  floor  were 
canvases,  boards,  and  an  unstable  assortment  of  three-legged 
easels,  donkeys,  quaintly  carved  chairs,  and  stools,  high  and  low, 
upon  which  last  students  of  all  figures  and  complexions,  some  of 
them  smoking,  sat  perched,  crowned  with  the  uncouth  straw 
hats  to  keep  the  glare  out  of  their  eyes,  and  reduced  to  the  shirt- 
sleeves by  the  heat  from  so  many  lights  and  breaths ;  the  pen- 
dent gas-jets  being  supplemented  by  the  paraffine  lamp  that 
lighted  a  shadowy  corner  where  a  skull  grinned  on  a  shelf,  and 
by  the  big  fire  that  was  needed  to  keep  the  model  from  shiver- 
ing on  the  throne,  where  she  stood  statuesque  against  the  white 
background  of  a  dirty  sheet,  her  head  resting  against  her  arm. 

And  from  everything  breathed  an  immemorial  dust — from 
the  fire  in  the  centre  of  the  right-hand  wall  an  impalpable 
ash  seemed  to  drift ;  dust  covered  the  mantel-piece  and  coated 


148  THE    MASTER 

the  bottles  of  linseed-oil  and  fixative  and  the  boxes  of  charcoal 
that  stood  upon  it,  dust  draped  in  gray  the  dilapidated  squash- 
nosed  lay -figure  that  leaned  drunkenly  against  the  right  side 
of  the  throne.  In  the  corners  of  the  room  the  dust  had  an  air 
of  legal  possession,  as  if  the  statute  of  limitations  had  secured 
it  against  the  broom.  There  were  dusty  mysteries  doubled 
up  on  shelves,  a  visible  leopard's  skin  suggesting  infinite  ro- 
mantic possibilities  for  the  others,  and  within  a  dusty  barrel  in 
a  corner  near  him  Matt  saw  dusty  bits  of  velvet  and  of  strange, 
splendid  stuffs  which  he  divined  were  for  costume  models, 
and  the  floor  seemed  a  land  of  lost  drawing-pins  and  forgot- 
ten fragments  of  charcoal.  And  then  his  heart  gave  a  great 
leap,  for  his  eye,  returning  timidly  to  the  throne  where  it 
had  scarcely  dared  as  yet  to  rest,  encountered  a  man's  head 
bending  over  a  writing-desk  in  the  compartment  of  the  floor 
to  the  left  of  it.  Surely  it  could  be  no  other  than  Grainger 
himself,  that  thin,  austere  man  with  the  big  bald  forehead  and 
the  air  of  Wellington,  and  Matt  thrilled  with  proportionate  rev- 
erence, and  turned  his  eye  away,  as  if  dazzled,  to  repose  it  on 
the  inchoate  paintings  of  the  students  who  were  squinting  sci- 
entifically at  the  model,  and  measuring  the  number  of  heads 
with  sticks  of  charcoal  or  their  brush-handles.  Some  had  her 
large,  some  small ;  some  turned  her  head  this  way,  some  that ; 
some  were  painting  her,  some  drawing  her  —  each  from  his 
point  of  sight. 

As  soon  as  his  own  canvas  arrived,  altogether  forgetting  his 
startled  modesty  in  the  delightful  interest  of  the  work,  he  fell 
to  touching  in  the  head  with  rapid  strokes  of  a  flowing  brush. 
The  woman  vanished  in  the  woman's  form  :  what  a  privilege  to 
enjoy  and  reproduce  those  beautiful  curves,  those  subtle  flesh- 
tones,  those  half-tints  of  cream  and  rose,  seen  under  gaslight ! 

"  What  are  you  about  ?"  said  his  mentor,  presently. 

"Painting  her  portrait,"  he  replied,  pausing,  with  painful 
foreboding. 

"  But  where's  the  charcoal  outline  ?" 

"  The  charcoal  .outline !" 

"Yes.  You  can't  paint  her  without  sketching  he*  first  in 
charcoal." 


GRAINGER'S  149 

"  Can't  I  ?"  asked  Matt,  with  a  sudden  remorseful  recollection 
of  his  first  sitter,  the  Acadian  legislator  whose  portrait  had 
paved  his  way  to  sign -painting.  He  hastened  to  efface  his  ig- 
norance with  a  palette-knife,  and  to  obliterate  it  with  a  rag 
moistened  with  turpentine ;  but  he  was  frightened  and  nervous 
and  denuded  of  confidence  in  himself,  and  when  he  attempted 
to  outline  the  figure  the  charcoal  boggled  at  the  greasy  surface 
of  the  canvas ;  and  while  he  was  wrestling  with  his  medium  he 
became  conscious  that  the  great  Grainger  was  behind  him,  and 
a  nervousness  that  he  had  not  felt  when  he  pointed  his  gun  at 
the  bear  in  his  forest  home  paralyzed  his  hand.  Grainger  stood 
for  some  moments  watching  his  fumbling  strokes,  then  he 
said : 

"  You  want  to  join  the  Life  class  ?" 

Matt,  flushing  furiously,  stammered  an  affirmative. 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  begin  with  the  Antique?" 
asked  Grainger. 

Matt  murmured  that  he  didn't  care  about  the  Antique  any- 
how, and  Grainger  shook  his  austere  head. 

"  Ah  !  there's  no  getting  on  without  slogging  away ',  it's  no 
good  shirking  the  ground-work.  The  living  figure  is  all  subtle 
lines.  You  can't  expect  to  be  equal  to  them  without  years  of 
practice  at  the  Antique  and  Still-life." 

Matt  plucked  up  courage  to  guess  that  he  would  have  another 
try  at  the  figure,  and  Grainger,  having  pocketed  a  quarter's  fees, 
moved  off,  leaving  Matt  amazed  at  his  own  temerity. 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  be  annoyed  if  I  stay  on  here  ?"  he  asked 
his  mentor,  as  he  resumed  his  work  with  the  determination  to 
prove  himself  not  unworthy  of  the  privilege. 

"  If  you  want  to  chuck  your  money  away,  it's  your  lookout," 
said  his  mentor,  candidly.  "  You  don't  hurt  him." 

"  Then  he  won't  say  anything  ?" 

"  It  doesn't  matter  what  he  says.     He's  not  up  to  much." 

"No?"  queried  Matt,  astonished.    "  Isn't  he  a  great  painter?" 

The  student  laughed  silently.  "  A  great  painter  keep  a 
school !"  he  said.  "  No  ;  it's  only  the  failures  that  do  that !" 

"  Then  how  can  one  learn  ?"  asked  Matt,  in  dismay. 

"  Oh,  well,  we  have  a  visitor  once  a  week — he's  rather  a  good 


150  THE    MASTER 

man.  Tarmigan  !  He's  not  an  R.A.,  but  he  can  knock  off  a 
head  in  twenty  minutes." 

"But  the  R.A.'s — what  are  they  for?"  inquired  Matt,  only 
partially  reassured. 

"For  show,"  said  the  young  man,  smartly.  "You  are  a 
green  un,  to  think  that  you're  going  to  get  Academicians  for 
thirty  bob  a  month.  You've  got  to  go  to  the  Academy  Schools 
if  you  want  them.  And  then  the  chaps  say  they're  not  much 
use.  Most  of  them  are  out  of  date,  and  you  get  a  different 
man  every  month  who  contradicts  all  the  others.  A  fellow  I 
know  says  the  best  of  the  visitors  is  Marmor,  but  he's  awfully 
noisy  and  facetious,  and  claps  you  on  the  back,  and  tells  you  a 
story,  and  forgets  to  criticise.  And  then  there's  Peters — he 
sighs  and  says  *  Very  tender,'  and  you  think  you've  improved, 
till  you  hear  him  say  'Very  tender'  to  the  next  man  too.  The 
chief  advantage  of  going  to  a  school  is  that  you  get  a  model 
which  you  couldn't  afford  to  hire  for  yourself,  and  you  learn 
from  the  other  fellows.  And  then,  of  course,  there's  composi- 
tion— Tarmigan's  jolly  good  for  that." 

By  this  time  Matt  had  sketched  his  outline,  and  he  was 
about  to  resume  the  brush  when  the  clock  struck  eight.  The 
model  stretched  herself  and  retired  behind  the  dirty  sheet,  which 
now  operated  as  a  screen,  and  there  was  a  rising,  a  putting 
down  of  palettes  (each  with  its  brushes  stuck  idly  in  its  thumb- 
hole),  an  outburst  of  exclamations,  a  striking  of  matches,  a  me- 
chanical rolling  of  cigarettes,  a  sudden  lowering  of  the  lights, 
and  a  general  air  of  breaking  up. 

"  School  over  already  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"  No,  they're  only  turning  the  gas  down  for  coolness  while 
the  model  has  a  rest.  You  see,  she  can't  stand  two  hours 
straight  off  the  reel." 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  said  Matt,  and  then  repented  of  having 
said  "guess,"  for  he  was  trying  to  prune  away  his  humble  ex- 
pressions and  to  remember  the  idioms  of  the  educated  people 
with  whom  his  new  life  was  bringing  him  into  contact.  "  It 
must  be  awful  hard,"  he  added. 

"  Yes ;  especially  in  a  school  where  a  lot  of  chaps  are  work- 
ing at  once,  and  she  can't  rest  a  limb  because  somebody  might 


GRAINGER'S  151 

just  be  painting  it.  One  woman  told  me  she'd  rather  scrub 
floors  so  as  to  feel  her  limbs  moving  about.  But  posing  pays 
better.  This  is  a  new  model — first  time  she's  been  here.  Pity 
women  with  such  fine  figures  haven't  got  prettier  faces.  Have 
a  cigarette  ?" 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Matt. 

"  Don't  smoke  ?" 

"  I  did  smoke  once,  but  I  gave  it  up."  Matt  did  not  like  to 
confess  it  was  because  he  could  not  afford  the  luxury. 

"  You  can't  be  an  artist  without  tobacco,"  said  his  mentor, 
laughingly.  "  Ah,  here's  the  model.  I'll  just  go  and  get  her 
address." 

He  went  up  to  the  model,  who  had  re  -  emerged  and  seated 
herself  at  ease  upon  the  throne,  where  a  group  of  students, 
with  pipes  or  cigarettes  in  their  mouths,  was  in  conversation 
with  her. 

Matt  followed  his  mentor,  interested  in  this  new  specimen 
of  humanity,  and  thinking  that  he  would  prefer  to  paint  her 
as  she  was  sitting  then,  nude  in  that  dim,  mysterious  light,  sur- 
rounded by  smoke-wreathed  figures  in  tropic  headgear,  her  face 
alive,  her  feet  crossed  gracefully,  playing  a  part  in  a  real  scene, 
yet  withal  unreal  to  the  point  of  grotesqueness. 

"  Oh,  I've  sat  a  lot  for  him"  she  was  saying  when  Matt 
came  up.  "  I  stand  every  morning  for  the  portrait  of  Letty 
Gray,  the  skirt-dancer ;  it's  for  the  Academy.  She  can't  come 
much,  and  she's  awfully  unpunctual.  Of  course  I'm  only  for 
the  figure." 

"Weren't  you  in  the  Grosvenor  Gallery  last  summer?"  asked 
a  bald  middle-aged  man. 

"Yes;  I  was  Setter's  'Moonbeam,'"  began  the  model, proudly. 

"  I  thought  I  recognized  you,"  said  the  middle  -  aged  man, 
with  an  air  of  ancient  friendship. 

"  And  I  was  also  on  the  line  in  the  big  room,"  she  added — 
"  Colin  Campbell's  '  Return  of  the  Herring-Boats.'  And  I  got 
into  the  Royal  Institute  as  well — Saxon's  *  Woman  Wailing  for 
Her  Demon  Lover.'  " 

"Ah,  here  you  are,  then !"  said  a  red-haired  young  man, 
producing  an  illustrated  catalogue. 


152  THE    MASTER 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  turning  over  a  few  pages.  u  And  there's 
my  husband — Sardanapalus,  223.  They  often  have  him  at  the 
Academy  Schools,"  she  wound  up,  with  conscious  pride. 

"  Ah,  perhaps  we  shall  get  him  here  one  week,"  said  the 
middle-aged  man. 

While  his  mentor  was  taking  down  her  address,  Matt  looked 
round  the  room.  The  austere  Grainger,  with  a  cigarette  in  his 
mouth,  was  reading  a  yellowish  paper  embellished  with  comic 
cuts.  Most  of  the  students  were  moving  about,  looking  at  one 
another's  easels,  the  work  on  which,  with  few  exceptions,  Matt 
was  surprised  to  find  mediocre ;  a  few  sat  stolidly  humped  on 
their  stools,  feet  on  rail  and  pipe  in  mouth ;  one  group  was 
examining  photographs  which  its  central  figure  had  taken,  and 
which  he  loudly  declared  knocked  the  painting  of  the  Fishtown 
School  to  fits.  From  all  sides  the  buzz  of  voices  came  through 
the  stifling,  smoky,  darkened  atmosphere. 

"  Have  you  seen  Piverton's  new  picture  ?" 

"  Rather  !  Another  S,"  contemptuously  replied  a  very  young 
man,  seated,  smoking  a  very  long  pipe  before  a  very  indifferent 
canvas. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Bubbles  ?"  asked  a  by-stander. 

"What,  haven't  you  noticed,"  he  answered,  with  ineffable 
disdain,  swinging  his  arm  in  illustration,  "that  the  lines  of  his 
compositions  are  all  curly — they  always  make  S  ?" 

"  I  thought  they  always  made  £  s.  c?.,"  interjected  a  curly- 
headed  wag.  And  all  except  the  very  young  man  laughed. 

"  Bubbles  is  gone  on  Whistler,"  observed  a  freckle  -  faced 
student,  compassionately. 

"  I  admire  him,"  admitted  the  very  young  man,  candidly, 
"  but  I  don't  say  he's  the  end  of  art." 

«*  No ;  that's  reserved  for  Bubbles,"  laughed  the  freckle-faced 
student. 

"  What  is  the  end  of  art,  Bubbles  ?"  said  another  man. 

"  T,  of  course,"  put  in  the  curly-headed  wag.  "  Five  o'clock 
and  fashionable." 

"  I  say,  Grainger  says  Miss  Hennery  used  to  work  in  his  day 
class,"  said  a  handsome  young  Irishman,  strolling  up  with  a 
bag  of  cakes,  from  which  the  model  had  just  helped  herself  in 
the  pervasive  spirit  of  camaraderie. 


153 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  anything  to  boast  of  in  that,"  pronounced 
Bubbles,  puffing  at  his  long  hookah.  "  She's  only  a  feeble 
female  imitation  of  Tarmigan.  Her  color's  muddy,  and  her 
brother  comes  into  all  her  men's  heads." 

"  I  suppose  she  can't  afford  models,"  said  the  Irishman, 
charitably.  "  Have  a  banbury." 

Bubbles  accepted,  and  the  by-standers  helped  to  empty  the 
bag.  Matt  moved  back  towards  his  easel,  passing  a  little  dark 
man  with  a  mane,  who  was  explaining  to  a  derisive  audience 
that  the  reason  he  went  to  music-halls  was  to  study  charac- 
ter, and  brushing  by  a  weedy  giant,  who  was  boasting  that  he 
hardly  ever  went  to  bed,  so  tied  was  he  to  his  anatomy.  Dur- 
ing his  progress  a  meagre,  wrinkled  old  man,  with  pepper-and- 
salt  hair  and  a  stoop,  approached  him,  and  said,  in  a  husky 
whisper : 

"  Excuse  me  introducin'  myself,  but  I  do  admire  your  feet 
so!" 

Matt  flushed,  startled. 

"  My  name's  Gregson — William  Gregson — and  I've  made  a 
speciality  of  feet.  The  'uman  form  divine  is  beautiful  every- 
where, sir,  but  the  foot — ah !  there  you  have  the  combination 
of  graces,  all  the  beautiful  curves  in  a  small  compass  ;  the  arch 
of  the  foot,  the  ankle,  instep,  the  beautiful  proportions  of  it 
all  when  you  do  get  a  really  beautiful  foot  such  as  yours.  I 
come  here,  sir,  every  night  to  study  the  beautiful — for  in  daily 
life  the  foot  is  'idden,  distorted  by  boots  and  shoes  that  ignore 
the  subtleties  and  delicacies  of  nature — and  the  foot  is  the  first 
thing  I  look  at ;  but  how  rarely  does  a  model,  man  or  woman, 
ex'ibit  a  truly  beautiful  foot !  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  paint 
your  foot,  or  take  a  cast  of  it  —  a  study  from  the  nude,  of 
course !  But  no — you  will  not  allow  me,  I  know.  May  I  at 
least  be  allowed  to  measure  it,  to  take  the  proportions,  to  add 
to  my  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  the  beautiful  foot  ?" 

Matt  faltered  that  he  didn't  know  he  had  anything  extraor- 
dinary in  the  way  of  feet. 

"My  dear  sir!"  protested  William  Gregson,  showing  the  whites 
of  his  eyes. 

Just  then  the  light  was  turned  up,  and  William  Gregson  re- 


154  THE    MASTER 

treated  abruptly  to  his  easel.  The  model's  court  scattered,  and 
she  herself  resumed  her  inglorious  occupation  of  the  throne, 
placing  her  feet  within  a  chalked-out  line,  and  her  arm  against 
a  mark  in  the  sheet. 

Matt,  returning  to  his  canvas,  worked  enthusiastically  to 
finish  the  figure  by  closing-time,  and  laid  down  his  brush  with 
some  minutes  to  spare,  thereby  drawing  upon  himself  the  at- 
tention of  his  mentor,  who  exclaimed  : 

"  By  Jove  !     What  made  you  rush  along  like  that  ?" 

"  There  was  no  time,"  said  Matt. 

"  Time  !  Why,  there's  four  more  evenings.  Every  model  sits 
a  fortnight — six  nights,  you  know." 

' "  Well,  she's   done,  anyhow,"  said   Matt,  in  rueful  amuse- 
ment. 

"  Yes,  she  is  done  anyhow."  And  his  mentor  laughed.  "  Why, 
that  '11  never  do.  You  can't  show  work  like  that." 

"Why  not?     It's  like  her." 

"  Yes,  but  there's  no  finish  in  it.  It's  only  a  sketch.  You're 
supposed  to  make  a  careful  study  of  it.  Tarmigan  insists  on 
the  exact  character  of  the  model.  He  always  says  even  Velas- 
quez's early  things  were  tight  and  careful." 

But  Matt  felt  he  could  not  take  the  thing  any  further — at  any 
rate,  not  that  night ;  the  fury  of  inspiration  was  over.  He  sat 
abstractedly  watching  the  quivering  of  the  model's  tired  limbs 
and  her  shadows  on  the  screen,  a  dusky  silhouette  with  lighter 
penumbras,  till  the  hour  was  up. 

On  Matt's  homeward  journey  he  was  overtaken  by  old  Gregson, 
who  discovered  that  their  routes  coincided,  and  renewed  his  ad- 
miration of  Matt's  foot  and  his  request  to  gauge  its  beauties,  till 
at  last,  unwilling  to  disoblige  a  brother  artist,  but  feeling  rather 
ridiculous,  the  young  man  slipped  off  his  boot  in  the  shelter  of 
a  doorway,  under  the  light  of  a  street-lamp,  and  the  wrinkled 
old  man,  producing  a  tape-measure,  ecstatically  recorded,  on  a 
crumpled  envelope,  the  varied  perfections  of  its  form. 

At  the  next  lesson  Matt  set  to  work  and  painted  away  all  the 
force  of  his  study  in  the  effort  to  reach  the  standard  prevailing 
at  Grainger's.  But  he  worked  dispirited  and  joyless,  like  a 
war-horse  between  the  shafts  of  an  omnibus,  or  a  savage  in  a 


GRAINGER' s  155 

stiff  shirt  and  a  frock-coat ;  suppressing  himself  with  the  same 
sense  of  drear  duty  as  when  he  had  sawn  logs  or  drilled  pota- 
toes. During  the  "rest,"  while  Matt  was  listening  in  amaze- 
ment to  some  secret  information  concerning  royal  personages, 
who  seemed  to  have  confided  all  their  intrigues  to  Bubbles, 
William  Gregson  drew  him  mysteriously  into  the  anteroom. 

"Do  you  know,  I  couldn't  sleep  the  other  night?"  said  the 
meagre,  wrinkled  old  man  with  the  pathetic  stoop. 

"  Were  you  ill  ?"  said  Matt,  sympathetically. 

"  No.     Your  foot  kept  me  awake." 

Matt  cast  a  furtive  look  at  it,  as  if  to  read  marks  of  guilt 
thereon. 

"  Yes ;  you  must  know  I'm  a  shoemaker  by  trade,  and  love 
art,  but  I  can't  devote  myself  to  it  like  you  young  fellows.  I 
work  'ard  all  day  'ammerin'  and  stitchin' ;  it's  only  in  the  even- 
ings that  I  can  spare  an  hour  for  paintin'." 

Matt's  eyes  moistened  sympathetically.  "  I'm  so  sorry,"  he 
murmured. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be.  I  knew  you  had  a  beautiful  nature. 
It  always  goes  with  beautiful  feet.  Ah,  you  smile!  I'm  an 
enthusiast,  I  admit,  and  you  will  smile  more  when  you  'ear  I  sat 
up  half  the  last  two  nights  to  create  an  artistic  boot  with  your 
beautiful  lines.  You  had  given  me  the  inspiration.  I  had  to 
create  there  and  then.  I  was  tired  of  my  day's  work,  I  was 
poor,  and  my  time  was  valuable  ;  but  before  all  I  am  an  artist. 
Sir,  I  have  brought  the  boots  with  me  " — here  he  produced  a 
brown-paper  parcel  from  under  his  arm — "  and  I  shall  be  proud 
if  you  will  accept  them  as  a  'umble  tribute  from  a  lover  of  the 
beautiful." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  couldn't  think  of  taking  them,"  said  Matt,  blush- 
ing furiously. 

"  Oh,  but  you  will  vex  me,  sir,  if  you  do  not.  It  pains  me 
enough  already  to  think  of  you  wearin'  the  cumbrous,  inartistic 
pair  I  see." 

"  I  won't  take  them  unless  I  pay  you  for  them." 

"  No,  no.  What  is  a  guinea  between  artists  ?"  And  he 
pressed  the  parcel  into  Matt's  hand. 

Matt  shook  his  head.     He  was  appalled  at  the  price,  but  he 


156  THE    MASTER 

felt  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  take  the  poor  old  man's  work  for 
nothing.  A  vague  suspicion  that  he  was  being  tricked  flitted 
beneath  his  troubled  mind,  but  his  worldly  experiences  had  not 
yet  robbed  him  of  his  guilelessness,  and  there  was  such  a  fire  of 
abnegation  in  the  homely  face  that  Matt  felt  ashamed  of  his 
doubt,  and  drew  out  the  money  with  a  feeling  that  he  was,  at 
any  rate,  helping  a  worthy  artistic  soul. 

"  Here  is  the  price  of  them,"  he  said. 

The  artist  took  the  money  and  looked  at  it. 

"A  guinea  would  give  me  nearly  another  month's  lessons," 
he  said,  wistfully. 

"  Put  it  in  your  pocket,  then,"  insisted  Matt,  his  last  doubt 
dissolving  in  fellow-feeling. 

But  the  cobbler  shook  his  head.  "  No,  no,  sir,  you  mustn't 
rob  me  of  my  impulse.  I  cannot  charge  you  full  price.  Take 
back  the  shilling.  Concede  something  to  my  feelings." 

"  There — if  that  '11  satisfy  you,"  said  Matt,  reaccepting  it. 

"  You  won't  tell  the  chaps,"  besought  the  shoemaker,  pathet- 
ically. "  They  wouldn't  understand  us.  They  would  laugh  at 
our  innocent  enthusiasm." 

As  Matt  shared  this  distrust  of  the  sympathy  of  the  studio, 
he  was  not  backward  with  assurances  of  secrecy,  while  he  was 
laboriously  bulking  his  overcoat-pocket  with  the  parcel. 

At  the  end  Df  Ihe  four  lessons,  when  Matt's  painting  seemed 
to  him  to  be  getting  almost  as  smooth  as  a  wax  figure,  and  as 
dead,Tarmigan  came — a  stern,  ill-dressed  man,  prematurely  gray 
— at  whose  approach  Matt's  heart  was  in  his  mouth.  The  famous 
artist  moved  leisurely  but  inevitably  towards  him,  shedding  crit- 
icism by  grunts  and  phrases  and  gestures ;  expressing  the  inef- 
fable by  an  upward  snap  of  the  fingers,  accompanied  by  a  Rus- 
sian-sounding sibilation  *  inquiring  sarcastically  whether  one 
student  was  drawing  the  model  or  the  lay-figure,  and  sneering- 
ly  recommending  another  to  move  his  drawing  "  if  the  model 
moved."  Every  now  and  again  he  sat  down  at  an  easel  to  get 
the  man's  point  of  view,  and,  taking  up  his  brush,  suggested  tone 
and  color,  or,  if  it  was  a  draughtsman's  easel,  borrowed  his  char- 
coal, and  showed  him  how  to  put  the  head  on  the  shoulders  or 
fit  on  an  extremity.  When  at  length  Matt  felt  the  great  man's 


GRAINGER'S  157 

breath  on  his  neck  a  cold  shiver  ran  down  his  spine,  the  brush 
clove  to  his  paralyzed  hand. 

"  Ah,  a  new  man  !"  said  the  visitor.     "  Not  bad." 

All  the  blood  in  Matt's  body  seemed  to  be  rushing  to  his  face. 
His  hand  began  to  tremble. 

The  visitor  did  not  pass  on  immediately.  He  said :  "  Where 
do  you  come  from  ?  There's  a  want  of  sharpness  in  the  shad- 
ows." 

"  From  America,"  breathed  Matt. 

"  I  mean  from  what  school  ?" 

"  I  haven't  been  to  school  since  I  was  a  boy." 

"  Not  been  to  an  art  school  ?"  queried  the  visitor,  in  surprise. 
"  Nonsense  !  Impossible  !  The  face  is  very  well,  but  the  rest 
is  not  taken  far  enough.  A  little  too  clever  !  Search  !  search  ! 
Even  Velasquez's  early  things  were —  But  you  must  have  had 
a  deal  of  practice." 

"  I  have  painted  quite  a  little,"  admitted  Matt,  "  but  not  right- 
ly, though  I  did  study  artistic  anatomy  out  of  a  book.  I've 
painted  hundreds  of  portraits  and  signs  and  ceilings." 

The  artist  was  examining  the  work  more  minutely.  "  Don't 
you  call  that  practice  ?"  he  said,  a  little  triumphant  smile  flitting 
across  his  wintry  face.  "  Hundreds  of  portraits — why,  that  means 
hundreds  of  models !  Why,  however  did  you  get  all  those  com- 
missions? It's  more  than  I  can  boast  of.  Try  and  keep  that 
lower  in  tone,  and  don't  use  that  color  at  all,"  he  added,  his  fin- 
gers tattooing  kindly  on  Matt's  shoulder.  The  class  had  pricked 
up  its  ears,  for  the  artist  spoke  by  habit  in  a  loud  tone,  so  that 
all  might  benefit  by  his  criticism  of  the  individual,  and  his  re- 
marks to  the  new-comer  were  quite  out  of  the  ordinary  run. 

"  It  was  only  in  the  country  places  in  Nova  Scotia,"  said  Matt, 
apologetically,  "  and  people  didn't  know  anything  about  it.  So 
long  as  I  made  a  handsome  likeness,  it  was  all  they  cared  for. 
And  then,  of  course,  they  were  never — never  naked." 

"  No?"  said  the  celebrity,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  No ;  they  always  wore  their  best  clothes,"  said  Matt,  smit 
ing,  too.  "  So  this  is  the  first  time  I've  done  one  like  this." 

"  You  haven't  done  it  yet,"  said  Tarmigan,  moving  on, 
"  There's  that  foot  yet  to  be  studied.  Search  !  Finish  !" 


158  THE    MASTER 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Matt,  with  an  unconscious  rever- 
sion to  the  idiom  of  McTavit's  school-room,  "  I  have  finished  the 
loot." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Tarmigan.  "  You've  got  another  toe  to 
paint  in." 

"  I  thought  I  had  to  copy  the  model  exactly,"  said  Matt, 
meekly. 

"  Well,  sir  ?"  said  Tarmigan,  puzzled. 

"  Well,  I  only  see  four  toes  on  that  foot." 

The  artist  was  startled ;  he  cast  a  rapid  glance  at  the  model. 
11  Good  Lord  !  the  man's  right,"  he  murmured,  for  the  model  was 
indeed  minus  a  toe. 

"  I  say,  you  men,"  he  said,  "  where  are  your  eyes  ?  You've 
given  the  model  an  extra  toe.  How  often  have  I  told  you  to 
look  before  you  paint  ?" 

All  eyes  were  bent  on  the  foot ;  the  model  reddened.  Those 
whose  work  had  not  yet  been  examined  hastened  to  amputate 
the  toe ;  the  others  took  on  an  air  of  injury. 

"  You  might  have  told  a  chap,"  whispered  his  mentor. 

"  I  thought  you  knew,"  said  Matt.  "  I  saw  it  as  soon  as  I 
began  to  paint,  but  I  didn't  take  any  notice  of  it  in  my  first 
rough  sketch.  It  was  only  when  you  told  me  I  must  copy  the 
model  exactly  that  I  put  it  in,  or,  rather,  left  it  out." 

For  some  time  longer  the  fusillade  of  Tarmigan's  criticisms 
rang  out  intermittently  :  "  Not  bad."  "  Humph  !  I  wouldn't 
make  too  much  of  those  little  things !  Keep  it  broader !" 
"  That's  very  well  !"  "  Psch  !"  "  That's  better  !"  "  Don't 
get  your  shadows  too  hot !"  "  That's  a  good  bit !"  "  That 
leg's  too  long  from  the  knee  down  !"  "  Don't  lick  it  too 
much  !"  "  Not  bad  !"  "  No,  no  ;  that  won't  do  at  all !" 
"  You'll  never  get  her  feet  into  that  canvas !"  "  Look  at  the 
model  with  your  eyes  nearly  closed  and  compare  the  tones !" 
Then  Tarmigan  set  a  composition  to  be  done  at  home  in  illus- 
tration of  "  Charity,"  and  stalked  through  the  door  amid  a 
chorus  of  "  Good-nights  "  in  incongruous  keys,  and  then  there 
was  a  silence  so  tense  that  the  creak  of  his  departing  boots 
could  be  heard  dying  away  in  the  long  passage ;  but  it  was  not 
till  the  "  rest "  arrived,  and  the  model,  wrapping  a  cloak  round 


GRAINGER' s  15& 

her,  had  left  the  room,  and  Grainger  had  silently  disappeared 
after  his  wont,  that  the  storm  burst. 

Bubbles  led  off. 

"  Who  ever  saw  a  picture  of  a  woman  with  four  toes  ?"  he 
cried,  disgustedly. 

"  Yes.  How  could  he  expect  us  to  examine  her  blooming 
toes  ?"  said  the  freckle-faced  student. 

"  Oh,  I  saw  she  had  four  toes  right  enough,"  said  Bubbles. 
"  But  a  painter  hasn't  got  to  paint  accidents — he's  got  to  paint 
pictures." 

"  It  '11  be  an  accident  if  you  paint  pictures,"  put  in  the  curly- 
headed  wag. 

"/  saw  the  missing  toe,"  asserted  the  handsome  young  Irish- 
man, "  when  I  set  her  for  the  class.  But  I  wasn't  going  to  spoil 
the  study.  One  can  easily  imagine  a  toe.  He's  got  no  sense  of 
poetry." 

"  I  saw  a  scratch  on  her  wrist,"  volunteered  the  middle-aged 
man.  "  I  wonder  he  didn't  want  us  to  paint  that." 

"  I  suppose  he'll  put  a  background  to  it,  and  send  it  to  the 
Academy,"  cackled  the  red-headed  young  man. 

"  They've  got  blue  noses  in  Nova  Scotia,  I  believe.  I  wonder 
if  he  put  them  into  his  portraits  ?"  the  weedy  giant  remarked  in 
a  loud  whisper  to  the  little  man  with  the  mane. 

Though  the  last  two  remarks  were  so  impersonal,  Matt  knew 
well  enough  they  were  aimed  at  him,  and  he  seemed  to  feel  an 
undercurrent  of  resentment  against  himself  beneath  the  animad- 
versions on  Tarmigan,  whom  he  knew  the  studio  revered.  He 
sat  uneasily  on  his  stool,  poring  mechanically  over  his  unhappy 
study  from  the  nude,  and  morbidly  misreading  animosity  into 
this  good-humored  badinage.  Before  his  mother's  living  death 
he  might  have  replied  violently  with  word  or  even  fist,  but  life 
had  broken  him  in.  Seeing  the  new  man  spiritless,  another  stu- 
dent took  up  the  parable  : 

"  He's  going  to  leave  it  to  the  nation." 

"  Then  he'll  have  to  leave  it  on  the  door-step  when  nobody's 
looking,"  replied  the  weedy  giant. 

Then  the  stream  of  wit  ran  dry,  and  comparative  silence  fell 
upon  the  room. 


160  THE    MASTER 

Abruptly  the  voice  of  the  curly-headed  wag  shot  across  the 
silence  :  "  Four-toes,  R.A." 

The  cry  was  taken  up  in  a  great  shout  of  laughter,  even  the 
uninterested  joining  in  from  sheer  joy  in  a  catchword.  It  seemed 
to  Matt  he  had  not  a  friend  in  the  room.  But  he  mistook.  The 
grizzled  old  shoemaker  sidled  up  to  him. 

"  You've  licked  me,  sir,"  he  said,  in  emotional  accents. 
"  You've  shamed  me  ;  me,  whose  speciality  is  feet.  I  never  no- 
ticed there  was  a  toe  missin'.  No,  sir ;  not  even  me.  Your  hand, 
sir.  I  bear  you  no  malice." 

Gratefully  Matt  gripped  the  cobbler's  extended  hand,  and  he 
took  occasion  to  apologize  for  not  enduing  the  artistic  boots,  ex- 
plaining that  he  was  reserving  them  for  high  days  and  holidays. 
He  let  the  bantering  cry  die  away  unanswered,  but  at  heart  he 
was  sick  with  the  thought  he  was  to  repeat  the  experience  of  the 
St.  John  paint-shop,  and  he  had  a  fierce  impulse  to  shake  the  dust 
of  the  studio  off  his  feet,  even  as  he  had  thrown  up  his  position 
in  New  Brunswick,  and  in  his  resentful  bitterness  he  allowed  his 
sense  of  the  inferiority  of  the  jeerers'  work  to  well  up  into  clear 
consciousness.  And  thus  he  brought  himself  round  to  the  re- 
membrance of  the  great  Tarmigan's  words,  and  to  a  softening 
sense  of  gratitude  for  the  strange  way  in  which  he  had  been  ac- 
quiring art  in  his  own  land,  even  while  he  was  yearning  and  plan- 
ning to  get  it  across  the  seas.  And  so,  though  the  nickname 
stuck  to  him  —  for,  indeed,  Grainger's  scarcely  knew  his  real 
name — he  remained  at  the  studio,  learning  to  take  its  humors 
more  genially,  and  even  to  partake  in  them,  and  drawn  to  its 
habitues  by  the  discovery  that  they,  too,  were  fighting  their  way 
to  art  from  the  shop,  the  school,  or  the  office,  but  never  losing 
altogether  the  shyness  and  sensitiveness  of  a  lonely  alien  and 
high-spirited  soul. 

From  Tarmigan,  whose  executive  faculty  and  technical  knowl- 
edge were  remarkable,  and  who,  despite  surface  revolts  behind 
his  back,  was  worshipped  by  the  whole  school,  Matt  got  many 
"  pointers,"  as  he  called  them  in  his  transatlantic  idiom — tradi- 
tions of  the  craft  which  he  might  never  have  hit  out  for  himself ; 
though,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  little  studies  he  made  at  home 
and  sometimes  showed  to  Tarmigan,  he  produced  effects  instinc- 


THE    ELDER    BRANCH  161 

tively,  the  technique  of  which  he  was  puzzled  to  explain  to  the 
master-craftsman,  who  for  the  rest  did  not  approve  of  the  strange 
warm  luminosities  Matt  professed  to  see  on  London  tiles,  or  the 
misty  coruscations  that  glorified  his  chimney-pots.  Grainger 
himself  never  offered  criticisms  to  his  pupils  except  casually, 
and  mainly  by  way  of  conversation,  when  he  was  bored  with  his 
own  thoughts. 

To  the  science  of  art  which  Tarmigan  taught,  and  which  was 
based  upon  inductions  from  great  pictures,  Matt  in  his  turn  did 
not  always  take  kindly ;  the  reduction  of  aesthetics  to  rule  chafed 
him  ;  he  was  distressed  by  Tarmigan's  symmetrical  formulae 
against  symmetry,  and  though  some  of  the  canons  of  composi- 
tion seemed  to  him  self-evident  when  once  pointed  out,  and  oth- 
ers not  unreasonable,  he  could  not  always  relish  the  mechanical 
application  of  the  general  law  to  his  particular  case  ;  but  he  sup- 
pressed his  untutored  instincts,  much  as  in  her  day  his  mother 
had  wrestled  with  Satan,  and  in  faith,  hope,  and  self-distrust  sub- 
mitted himself  duteously  to  law  and  Tarmigan.  He  worked  flu- 
ently for  the  most  part,  but  every  now  and  then  came  a  sudden 
impotency  not  always  due  to  lack  of  sympathy  with  the  model ; 
an  inability  to  get  the  exact  effect  he  wanted,  which  tortured 
him  even  more  than  Tarmigan's  strait- waistcoat  of  dogma. 

Very  soon  Grainger's  grew  half  boastful,  half  jealous  of  its 
American  prodigy,  whom  all  later  arrivals,  catching  up  the  nick- 
name without  the  history  of  its  origin,  imagined  to  be  likewise 
abnormal  in  the  number  of  his  toes.  Some  recalled  Byron's  club- 
foot,  and  wondered  if  Matt  Strang's  pedal  defect  had  any  con- 
nection with  the  genius  of  "Four-toes,  R.A." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    ELDER    BRANCH 


IN  the  heated  discussions  at  Grainger's  of  the  demerits  of 

the  painters  of  the  day,  no  one  ever  mentioned  the  name  of 

Strang  except  once ;   and  then   the    Christian  name   was   not 

Matthew.     Matt  did  not  like  to  bring  up  the  name  himself,  as 

11 


162  THE    MASTER 

it  was  his  own,  but  he  soon  understood  that  artists  do  not  deal 
in  other  people's  pictures,  and,  recalling  Madame  Strang's  re- 
mark about  her  husband,  he  gradually  came  to  the  conviction 
that  his  namesake  was  the  dethroned  god  of  an  earlier  day, 
discouraged  into  sterility  and  commerce  by  the  indifference  of 
the  younger  generation.  And  as  the  deity  loomed  less  terrible, 
and  as  Matt  felt  himself  more  at  home  in  the  art  atmosphere  of 
England,  so  the  idea  of  making  himself  known  to  his  uncle  began 
to  be  shorn  of  its  terrors,  and  even  to  be  tinged  with  the  gener- 
ous thought  of  inspiring  the  neglected  artist  to  fresh  work — an 
inversion  of  attitude,  the  humor  of  which  did  not  occur  to  him. 

But  when  one  afternoon  he  did  betake  himself  again  to  the 
elegant  emporium  off  Cavendish  Square,  and  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  the  dapper  young  gentleman  and  his  horse- 
shoe cravat-pearl,  the  old  awe  of  the  refinement  radiating  from 
every  quarter  of  the  compass  overwhelmed  him,  and  his  tongue 
refused  to  ask  for  Mr.  Strang,  compromising  by  a  happy 
thought  in  the  demand  for  Madame.  Madame  appeared  forth- 
with, flashing  upon  him  a  sense  of  matronly  sweetness  and 
silk,  and  snatching  him  from  the  embarrassment  of  openings 
by  exclaiming  in  her  charming  accent : 

"  Ah,  you've  come  for  your  change." 

"  What  change  ?"  asked  Matt. 

"  You  left  sixpence  on  the  desk.     I  noted  it  down." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Matt.  "  I  had  no  idea  you 
would  remember  me  all  this  time." 

"  I  never  forget  clever  people,"  said  Madame,  with  a  bewitch- 
ing smile. 

"  How  do  you  know  I'm  clever  ?"  Matt  smiled  back. 

Madame  waved  away  the  question  with  her  plump  white 
hand  in  silent  smiling  reaffirm ation.  "  I've  always  lived  with 
clever  people,"  she  said,  simply.  "  Talent  is  the  only  thing  I 
admire  in  this  world." 

Matt  said  lamely  that  he  was  glad  to  hear  it.  The  phrase 
was  a  poor  expression  of  his  pleasure  in  at  last  meeting  a  soul 
with  his  own  ideals. 

"  Where  was  it  you  saw  my  husband's  pictures  ?"  asked 
Madame,  eagerly. 


THE    ELDER    BRANCH  163 

Matt  flushed.  "  I  didn't  see  any,"  he  confessed.  "  My 
father  told  me  about  them." 

"  Where  did  your  father  see  them  ?" 

"  At  home,  when  they  were  boys  together." 

"  What !     They  were  school-fellows  ?" 

"  Brothers  !"  said  Matt,  and  felt  the  instant  relief  of  criminal 
confession. 

Madame  uttered  a  little  cry  of  delighted  astonishment,  and 
took  Matt's  hands  in  hers. 

"  My  dear  sir,  my  dear  sir !"  she  cried,  shaking  them,  "  I 
knew  you  were  clever.  Come  inside — come  inside.  Why  didn't 
you  say  who  you  were  last  time  ?  You  are  the  boy  who  wrote 
to  Matthew  from  Nova  Scotia  years  ago !  What  a  pity  he  is 
out !  He  will  be  so  charmed." 

And,  still  holding  his  hands,  she  led  him  up  a  little  flight  of 
stairs  into  a  daintily  furnished  sitting-room,  resplendent  with 
pictures,  and  sat  him  down  in  a  soft  arm-chair,  and  hung  ad- 
miringly over  him,  and  plied  him  with  inquiries  as  to  his  past 
and  his  projects  and  things  Nova  Scotian  (without  always 
waiting  for  an  answer,  or  ever  getting  more  .than  a  brief  gener- 
ality), and  rang  for  claret  and  cake,  which  were  brought  in  by 
a  pretty  girl  in  a  piquant  white  cap,  but  which  Matt  refused  for 
fear  of  seeming  to  be  in  want  of  refreshment. 

"  I  have  a  son  who  is  also  an  artist — oh,  so  clever,  the  dear 
boy  !"  she  told  him.  "  You  must  know  him  —  you  will  love 
each  other.  He  is  at  work  now  in  his  studio  ;  but  he  must  not 
be  interrupted  till  the  light  fails." 

Matt's  eyes  kindled.  "  I  shall  like  to  know  him,"  he  cried, 
fervently. 

"  Yes,  dear  Herbert !  Oh,  you've  no  idea  how  sweet  and 
good  and  clever  he  is!  He's  twenty -three,  yet  as  obedient 
as  a  child.  We're  so  proud  of  him — his  father  and  I.  He 
quite  consoles  us  for  the  failure  of  the  English  to  appreciate 
Matthew's  work." 

"  Oh,  where  can  I  see  uncle's  work  ?"  asked  Matt,  eagerly. 

Madame  shook  her  head  sadly.  "  Oh,  he  parted  with  all  his 
pictures  ever  so  many  years  ago,"  she  said. 

"  But  aren't  they  exhibited  anywhere  ?" 


164  THE    MASTER 

"  We  don't  know.  They  must  be  some  day,  if  they  are  not 
destroyed,  for  they  are  so  clever.  But  the  fact  is — though,  of 
course,  I  wouldn't  tell  it  to  a  stranger — we  had  to — to — pawn 
them,  and  they  were  never  redeemed,  and  poor  Matthew  never 
would  paint  again,  he  was  so  embittered.  Oh,  it  was  such  a 
slow,  sad  struggle,  those  early  days  of  our  married  life  !  For 
years  no  one  would  buy  poor  Matthew's  work,  and  when  the 
money  he  had  brought  from  Nova  Scotia  gave  out  we  should 
have  starved  if  I  had  not  started  a  little  dress-maker's  shop. 
They  still  call  me  Madame,"  she  interpolated,  with  a  melancholy 
smile. 

"  But  you  are  French,  aren't  you  ?"  said  Matt,  thrilling  with 
the  pathos  of  those  far-away  struggles. 

"  Yes,  my  parents  were  French,  but  I  have  spoken  English 
almost  from  girlhood." 

"  There  is  French  blood  in  our  family,  too,"  murmured  Matt, 
with  a  sad  recollection  of  his  mother.  He  wondered  what  she 
was  doing  at  the  moment. 

"  Indeed  !  Perhaps  that  was  what  drew  me  to  Matthew — that 
and  his  artistic  genius.  Poor  Matthew  !" 

"  But  you  are  well  off  now  ?"  said  Matt,  dubiously.  He  did 
not  trouble  to  correct  her  mistake,  to  explain  that  the  French 
blood  was  on  the  spindle  side. 

"  Oh,  we  are  rich.  We  have  all  we  want.  When  my  dress- 
maker's business  grew  prosperous — in  fact,  quite  a  fashionable 
resort — Matthew,  who  could  not  bear  to  be  out  of  touch  with 
art,  though  he  had  sworn  never  to  paint  again,  saw  his  way  to 
dealing  in  pictures.  Of  course,  he  makes  far  more  than  any  of 
his  artist  friends  who  succeeded,  but  that  does  not  console  me 
for  the  pictures  the  world  has  lost." 

"  But  why  doesn't  he  paint  now  that  he  has  money  ?"  in- 
quired Matt. 

"  He  says  he's  too  old,"  said  Madame,  sighing.  "  And  be- 
sides, he  thinks  he'd  only  be  eclipsed  by  Herbert.  Of  course, 
Herbert  is  exceptionally  gifted ;  he  took  the  medal  at  the  Royal 
Academy  Schools,  you  know,  for  the  best  copy  of  an  Old  Mas- 
ter, and  he  has  had  advantages  which  were  denied  to  his  poor 
father.  But  still  it  often  makes  me  cry  to  think  of  how  he 


THE    ELDER    BRANCH  165 

sinks  himself  in  the  dear  boy,  not  caring  a  jot  about  his  own 
reputation.  Oh,  there  are  few  such  fathers,  I  can  tell  you.  I 
don't  know  what  I  have  done  to  deserve  such  a  husband,  I  who 
have  no  cleverness  or  talent  of  any  kind." 

And  here,  as  at  his  cue,  Matthew  Strang  entered,  in  a  soft 
hat  and  a  black  cloak  vastly  more  impressive  than  the  staid 
shabbiness  of  Tarmigan,  than  whom  his  Vandyke  beard  alone 
gave  him  the  greater  artistic  distinction.  He  leaned  slightly 
upon  a  gnarled  walking-stick. 

Madame  sprang  up  to  meet  him  in  the  doorway.  "  Oh,  Mat- 
thew !"  she  cried,  ecstatically,  "  the  young  man  who  wanted  to 
see  you  is  your  own  nephew.  And  he  is  come  to  study  art. 
And  won't  it  be  delightful  for  Herbert  to  have  a  companion  ? 
I  made  him  wait  for  you  —  I  knew  you  wouldn't  be  long." 
And  radiant  beneath  her  cap,  Madame  stepped  aside,  as  if  to 
leave  the  stage  free  for  the  rapturous  embrace  between  the 
uncle  and  his  long-lost  nephew.  But  Matthew  Strang  stood 
rigid  with  astonishment,  only  his  eyes  moving  in  startled  ex- 
amination of  the  young  man,  who  had  risen  respectfully. 

For  an  interval  of  seconds  that  seemed  numerable  in  minutes 
he  looked  at  Matt  without  speaking,  leaning  on  his  stick,  his 
saturnine  face  growing  momently  darker. 

"  Davie's  son,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  slowly,  at  last. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Matt. 

"  H'm  !  I  might  have  seen  it.  So  you  have  come  to  England, 
after  all  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     But  not  till  I  had  the  money  for  my  studies." 

Matthew  Strang's  face  lightened  a  little.  "  Sit  down !  Sit 
down  !  No  need  to  stand,"  he  said,  with  uneasy  graciousness, 
placing  his  disengaged  hand  on  Matt's  shoulder.  "  And  how 
are  all  your  folks  ?" 

"  Oh,  they're  pretty  spry,  thank  you,"  said  Matt,  resuming 
his  chair. 

"  Let  me  see — your  mother  married  again,  didn't  she  3" 

Matt  nodded. 

"  She's  still  alive,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Ye-es,"  faltered  Matt. 

«'  And  how's  the  Province  ?" 


166  THE    MASTER 

"  It's  about  the  same,"  said  Matt,  vaguely. 

"  Ha !"  said  Mr.  Strang,  with  an  all-comprehending  air. 

He  allowed  Madame  to  divest  him  lovingly  of  his  cloak. 
Then  he  said  :  "  You're  settled  in  London,  then?" 

"  I  shall  stay  here  some  time." 

"  Humph  !  You're  not  like  your  father.  He  could  never 
stay  in  one  place.  Well,  well,  I'm  sure  I  wish  you  success,  but 
you  know  it's  not  an  easy  line  you've  gone  into." 

"  So  you  wrote  to  me,  sir." 

"  Ha !     Well,  I  wrote  the  truth." 

"  I  was  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  your  advice,"  said  Matt, 
sincerely. 

But  the  elder  man,  suspecting  sarcasm,  replied  half  defiantly: 
"  There's  not  one  man  in  a  thousand  that  makes  his  bread-and- 
butter  by  it.  Why,  I've  just  bought  a  picture  from  an  A.R.A. 
for  fifty  pounds ;  it's  worth  treble.  You  would  have  done 
better  at  your  farm — or  was  it  a  saw-mill?" 

"  It  isn't  the  money  I  was  thinking  of,  sir ;  it's  the  joy  of 
painting." 

"  Hum !  I  talked  like  that  once."  Matthew  Strang  sat 
down  rather  peevishly  and  crossed  his  legs. 

"  And  you  talk  like  that  now,  too,"  said  Madame,  with  gentle 
reproach.  "  Not  for  yourself,"  she  corrected,  hastily,  as  his 
eyebrows  took  their  interrogative  altitude.  "  But  you  know 
you  don't  care  if  Herbert  doesn't  make  money  for  years,  so 
long  as  he  makes  a  reputation  eventually." 

"  Herbert  is  in  a  different  position.  He  doesn't  need  to  earn 
anything." 

"  Nor  does  your  nephew,"  said  Madame.  "  He  has  ample 
resources,  he  tells  me." 

Matt  blushed  at  Madame's  unconscious  magnification  of  his 
curt  statement  on  the  point,  but  he  did  not  think  it  worth 
while  contradicting  her.  Matthew  uncrossed  his  legs  restlessly. 
"  I  suppose  your  mother  married  a  well-to-do  man  ?" 

"  Yes,  pretty  well-to-do,"  Matt  stammered. 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  who  you  were  at  first  ?" 

"  I  didn't  like  to.  I — I  remembered  you  had  advised  me 
not  to  come  to  England." 


THE    ELDER    BRANCH  167 

"  Well,  the  mischief  was  done;  you  might  just  as  well-  have 
spoken.  I  might  have  given  you  some  advice.  .  .  .  You  could 
have  had  the  engraving  at  trade  price.  ...  If  you  are  looking 
for  etchings,  or  any  little  things  for  your  rooms,  I  couldn't 
dream  of  treating  you  like  a  stranger." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Matt,  with  feeble  fervency. 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  his  uncle,  holding  up  his  right 
palm  deprecatingly.  "  By -the -way,  what  made  you  address 
your  letter  to  the  National  Gallery  ?" 

Matt  colored.  "  I  thought  all  the  London  painters  lived 
there,"  he  said,  with  an  uneasy  smile. 

Madame  laughed  heartily.  "Why,  Matthew  only  got  it 
through  an  official  inquiring  among  the  people  copying  pictures 
there.  One  of  them  happened  to  be  a  customer  of  ours,  and 
suggested  trying  us." 

"  Yes,  it  was  all  boyish  foolishness,"  said  Matt. 

"  And  where  are  you  living,  now  that  you  have  come?"  said 
his  uncle. 

"  Not  far  from  here — in  Holborn."  He  added,  hastily,  for 
fear  his  uncle  might  be  meditating  a  visit :  "  I  can  bring  you 
some  of  my  work  if  you  like." 

"  Oh  yes,  do  !  Won't  that  be  charming !"  interjected  Madame, 
clapping  her  hands. 

Matthew  checked  her  with  a  stern  glance.  "  I  don't  think 
I  should  be  able  to  do  anything  with  an  unknown  man,"  he 
said,  shaking  his  head. 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Matt,  getting  hot.  "I  thought 
you  might  like  to  see  that  I  wasn't  quite  a  duffer.  I  don't  ex- 
pect to  sell  my  work  yet,  but  they  think  I'm  rather  promising 
at  the  school." 

"  What  school  ?     Who  thinks  ?" 

"  Tarmigan." 

"  Tarmigan  !"  echoed  Matthew  Strang.  "  Why,  I  could  have 
picked  up  one  of  his  water-colors  for  a  fiver  last  week.  Tar- 
migan has  been  going  down  steadily  for  the  last  four  years. 
He  took  the  gold  medal  at  the  Academy,  and  at  first  promised 
well.  Ten  years  ago  I  even  meditated  a  corner  in  him,  but 
luckily  I  had  the  sense  to  sell  out  in  time,  before  it  was  quite 


168  THE    MASTER 

certain  he  would  never  even  be  an  Associate.  No  wonder  he's 
reduced  to  visiting." 

"  Oh,  but  he  does  that  for  nothing,  they  say,"  protested  Matt, 
hotly.  "  He's  a  jolly  fine  chap  !" 

"  Ha !  No  wonder  he  doesn't  get  on.  Who  ever  heard  of  a 
really  good  man  wasting  his  time  in  that  way  ?" 

"  Then  don't  you  think  I'm  doing  any  good  studying  under 
him  ?"  asked  Matt,  in  affright. 

"  Oh,  he's  all  right  for  teaching ;  I  haven't  a  word  against 
him.  He's  one  of  the  few  men  in  England  who  are  supposed 
to  know  their  trade.  But  he's  too  stilted  and  classical ;  there's 
no  sentiment  in  him;  he  don't  touch  the  heart  of  the  buying 
public.  It's  all  science  and  draughtsmanship,  and  he  won't  do 
anything  to  meet  the  market  half  way." 

"  It's  spunky  of  him  to  stick  to  his  convictions,  anyhow," 
said  Matt,  in  low  tones,  provoked  by  his  uncle's  disparagement 
into  a  recrudescent  enthusiasm  for  Tarmigan,  who  had  recently 
been  weighing  upon  him  like  a  nightmare. 

"Bah!  and  how  does  he  know  his  convictions  are  right? 
The  public's  the  best  judge  of  art." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Matt,  deprecatingly.  "  Should  you  really  think 
that's  so  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  think  so.  Would  the  public  have  me  ?  No. 
And  the  public  was  right."  He  looked  at  Matt  half  fiercely,  as 
if  defying  him  to  deny  it.  Madame  was  smiling  and  shaking 
her  head.  "The  public's  always  right,"  he  went  on,  emphati- 
cally. "  It's  the  critics  that  throw  the  market  into  perpetual 
confusion.  Such  a  babel  of  voices,  all  laying  down  what  is 
right  and  what  is  wrong,  what  is  art  and  what  is  not  art,  that 
it's  enough  to  drive  a  dealer  crazy.  For  my  part,  I  steer  by  the 
Academy ;  that's  my  polestar,  and  I'm  rarely  out,  for  that's 
what  the  public  take  their  reckoning  by.  And  it's  an  R.A. 
that  my  boy  is  going  to  be,  please  God,  for  theories  may  come 
and  theories  may  go,  but  the  Academy  goes  on  forever." 

"  Dear  Herbert !"  murmured  Madame. 

"  I  suppose  he's  awfully  advanced,"  said  Matt,  wistfully. 

"  Years  ago  he  took  the  medal  for  the  best  copy  of  an  Old 
Master  at  the  Royal  Academy  Schools,  where  he  is  now  just 


THE    ELDER    BRANCH  169 

finishing  his  course,"  explained  his  uncle.  "  And  you  know 
you  can't  even  begin  the  course  without  being  clever." 

"  No,  I  know,"  said  Matt,  with  a  sinking  of  heart,  for  he  had 
by  this  time  studied  the  prospectus  of  the  national  art-schools 
and  been  dismayed,  not  so  much  by  the  anatomical  information 
and  technical  expertness  demanded  at  the  entrance  competition 
as  by  the  slow-dragging  septennial  course,  the  drudgery  of  still- 
life  and  perspective  and  the  antique,  and  all  the  tedious  grind 
of  convention.  "  I  thought  of  trying  to  get  in  myself,  but  I'm 
afraid  I  shall  have  to  give  up  the  idea." 

"  Oh,  Herbert  only  drops  in  there  now  and  then,"  said 
Matthew,  loftily.  "  He  works  mostly  at  home  with  his  own 
models." 

Matt  had  a  pang  of  envy. 

"  And  then  he  has  always  had  the  benefit  of  your  experience," 
he  said. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  pretend  to  have  done  more  than  encourage 
him." 

"Now,  Matthew/'  said  Madame,  shaking  her  finger  fondly, 
"you  know  it  was  at  your  knee  that  he  made  his  first  studies." 

Matthew  smiled  faintly,  not  displeased.  "  I'm  like  Tarmigan : 
I  can  teach  better  than  I  can  paint,"  he  said,  and  poured  him- 
self out  a  glass  of  wine,  fascinating  Matt's  eye  by  the  play  of 
light  in  the  diamond  on  his  forefinger.  "  If  I  listened  to  my 
wife,  I  should  give  up  business  and  set  up  an  easel  again,  as  in 
my  young  and  foolish  days.  Thank  God,"  he  said,  pausing  to 
gulp  down  the  claret,  "  I  had  sense  to  stop  in  time  !  What  could 
be  expected  of  a  young  man  who'd  lived  on  a  farm  in  a  God- 
forsaken country  ?  Ah,  your  father  was  right !  He  never  would 
allow  any  merit  to  my  ships  or  cows." 

Red  sands  flitted  before  Matt's  vision,  with  lambent  pools,  and 
overhead  a  diaphanous  rosy  vapor,  beyond  which  brooded  the 
vast  cloudless  circle  of  the  sky.  Ah,  God  !  why  was  the  sky  so 
blue  and  depthless  in  those  days  ?  As  from  dim,  far-away  cav- 
erns, the  acrid  voice  of  the  picture -dealer  reached  his  ears  in 
complacent  exposition :  "  It's  all  training,  and  if  you  don't  get 
trained  young,  you  might  as  well  attempt  to  fly." 

Becoming  conscious  of  a  silence,  Matt  answered,  "  That's  so." 


1YO  THE    MASTER 

"  It's  the  same  with  music,"  went  on  his  uncle,  tapping  im- 
pressively on  his  wineglass  with  his  glittering  forefinger.  "  You 
can't  expect  a  grown-up  man  to  sit  down  and  practise  scales  like 
a  little  girl  in  a  pinafore  ;  and  even  if  he  would,  his  fingers  have 
lost  their  suppleness,  his  joints  are  set.  I  saw  this  clearly,  and 
was  determined  my  boy  shouldn't  suffer  as  I'd  done.  Why, 
Herbert  had  a  brush  put  into  his  hand  before  he  could  write !" 

Matt's  heart  sank  lower. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  his  work,"  he  said,  anxiously. 

"  Ha !"  said  Matthew,  a  complacent  smile  hovering  about  his 
lips. 

"  Oh  yes,  let  him  see  Herbert's  work,"  pleaded  Madame. 

"  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  disturb  him,"  said  Matthew,  yield- 
ingly. "  Won't  you  take  another  glass  of  wine  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Matt,  who  was  quite  faint,  for  his 
dinner  had  been  of  the  slightest ;  and  feeling  the  request  a  sig- 
nal to  take  his  leave,  he  rose. 

"  Oh  yes,  do  let  him  see  them,"  said  Madame,  hurriedly.  "  It's 
only  for  once." 

"  Oh,  well,  as  you're  a  sort  of  relation,"  said  the  father,  im- 
posingly. "  But  I  make  it  a  point  not  to  interrupt  him.  These 
hours  are  precious ;  there's  not  too  much  light  at  the  best  of 
times."  And,  as  if  following  Matt's  impulse,  he  rose  and  turned 
doorward. 

"  There's  no  need  for  you  to  trouble,  Josephine,"  he  said, 
waving  her  back. 

As  they  mounted  the  soft -carpeted  staircase,  on  which  un- 
draped  marble  statues  looked  down  from  their  niches,  he  ex- 
plained, gravely,  "  There's  a  male  model  up  there,  you  see." 

Matt  nodded,  awed  to  silence  by  the  splendor  of  the  staircase, 
up  which  he  toiled  side  by  side  with  the  Vandyke  beard  and 
the  velvet  coat. 

"  Herbert,  of  course,  uses  the  side  door,"  vouchsafed  his  com- 
panion, graciously,  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  the  long  ascent. 
"  I  couldn't  have  his  models  coming  through  the  shop." 

Matt  murmured  something  negative,  but  his  reply  was  lost  in 
a  dull  thud  from  above.  The  elder  man  cleared  the  remaining 
stairs  in  alarm,  and  threw  open  the  door. 


THE    ELDER    BRANCH  171 

"Give  us  a  hand  up, you  beggar,"  a  piping  girlish  voice, was 
saying. 

On  the  rich  carpet  of  the  vast,  elegant  studio,  whose  glories 
dazzled  Matt's  vision,  a  slim  young  man  was  sprawling  on  his 
back.  Over  him  stood  a  stalwart  figure,  clad  only  in  boxing- 
gloves. 

The  saturnine  picture -dealer  rushed  forward  and  helped  his 
boy  up. 

"  It's  all  right,  dad,"  said  Herbert,  in  unembarrassed  amuse- 
ment as  he  was  scrambling  to  his  feet.  "  I  just  wanted  to  give 
the  model's  arms  a  little  movement  during  the  rest.  The  posi- 
tion's so  difficult  for  him,  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  the  thing 
right  all  day.  Look  !  there's  nothing  at  all  on  the  canvas ;  I've 
had  to  paint  it  out." 

The  model  had  somewhat  shamefacedly  taken  off  his  gloves 
and  struck  an  attitude  upon  the  throne. 

"  Ha  !"  said  Matthew  Strang,  in  vague  accents.  "  You  ought 
to  be  getting  on  faster  with  those  gold-medal  studies,  now  that 
you  have  put  aside  your  picture  for  this  year's  Academy.  You 
will  need  all  your  time,  you  know.  I've  brought  you  a  visitor." 

Herbert  turned  his  face  towards  the  door — the  handsome, 
glowing  face  of  a  boy,  beardless  and  clean-shaven,  with  candid 
blue  eyes  and  tumbled  flaxen  hair,  and  the  flash  of  white  teeth 
accustomed  to  display  themselves  in  laughter.  There  was  his 
father's  interrogative  mark  about  the  arched  eyebrows  as  he 
caught  sight  of  Matt,  hanging  back  timidly  on  the  threshold. 

The  young  Nova-Scotian's  heart  was  leaden,  his  soul  wrapped 
in  a  gloom  which  had  been  gathering  blackness  ever  since  he 
had  set  foot  in  his  uncle's  shop,  and  which  the  sight  of  the 
commodious  studio,  with  its  rich  properties  and  luxurious  appli- 
ances, its  crimson  lounges  and  silk  drapings  and  fleecy  rugs  and 
gleaming  marbles  and  bronzes,  had  darkened  into  despair.  The 
penurious  past  surged  back  to  him  through  a  suffusion  of  unshed 
tears  —  tears  that  were  salt  with  the  sense  of  injustice  and  of 
sorrows  unforgettable,  all  the  creeping,  irremediable  years  con- 
tributing their  quintessence  to  the  bitterness  of  this  supreme 
moment:  the  chances  he  had  missed,  the  lessons  he  had  not  re- 
ceived, the  obstacles  that  had  rather  sprung  up  to  beat  him  back, 


172  THE    MASTER 

whose  infant  fingers  no  loving  hand  had  ever  guided,  whose 
boyish  yearnings  no  word  of  encouragement  had  ever  sweet- 
ened, whose  youth  had  been  all  distasteful  labors  and  mean  trage- 
dies and  burdens  too  great  to  bear,  and  whose  very  triumph 
would  find  none  to  sympathize  with  it,  if  it  came,  as  it  never 
could  come  to  one  so  untrained,  so  alien  from  the  world  of  art 
and  elegant  studios  and  all  the  soft  things  of  life ;  driven  to  the 
scum  of  the  streets  for  models  at  a  few  pence  an  hour,  and  re- 
duced to  studying  attitudes  from  his  own  contortions  before  a 
bleared  strip  of  mirror  in  a  dingy  back  room ;  unregarded,  un- 
cared-for, unknown,  an  atom  in  that  vast  magic-gleaming  London 
which  had  so  cruelly  disillusioned  him,  and  in  which  even  the 
one  heart  in  which  his  own  blood  ran  was  cold  and  far  away ; 
his  poor  pre-eminence  at  Grainger's,  his  primacy  among  a  set  of 
duffers,  no  augury  of  success  in  that  fierce  struggle  in  which 
Tarmigan  himself  had  gone  to  the  wall.  Was  it  worth  while  to 
vex  himself  endlessly,  swirled  to  and  fro  like  a  bubble  on  an 
ocean  ?  Were  it  not  sweeter  to  break,  and  to  be  resolved  into 
the  vastness  and  the  silence  ? 

His  right  hand  wandered  towards  his  hip-pocket,  where  his 
pistol  lay.  How  good  to  be  done  with  life !  Then  he  became 
aware,  through  a  semi-transparent  mist,  that  the  gracious  blond 
boy  was  holding  out  his  hand  with  a  frank  smile,  and  instinct 
drew  out  his  own  right  hand  in  amicable  response,  and  so  the 
temptation  was  over.  The  poor  children  dependent  upon  him 
came  up  to  memory,  and  he  wondered  at  his  spasm  of  selfish 
despair. 

His  uncle  must  have  said  words  to  which  he  had  been  deaf, 
for  Herbert  seemed  to  know  who  he  was  and  why  he  had 
come. 

"  Welcome,  fair  coz,"  he  said,  gripping  Matt's  hand  heartily. 
"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  Shakespeare.  A  moment  ago  I  scarcely 
remembered  I  had  a  relation  in  the  world.  Confound  it !  why 
weren't  you  a  girl  cousin  while  you  were  about  it?" 

"  Herbert,  don't  be  rude,"  said  his  father. 

Herbert  elevated  his  blond  eyebrows.  "  I  wish  you  would 
cultivate  a  sense  of  humor,  dad,"  he  observed,  wearily.  Matt, 
who  was  responding  to  his  grip,  fascinated  instantly  by  the  boy- 


THE    ELDER    BRANCH  173 

ish,  sunny  charm,  loosed  his  clasp  in  sheer  astonishment  at  the 
transition. 

Matthew  Strang  disregarded  his  son's  observation,  but  gruffly 
told  the  model,  whose  attitudinizing  immobility  was  irritating, 
that  he  need  not  pose  for  a  moment  or  two,  whereupon  Herbert 
bade  him  begone  altogether.  "  I've  been  off  color  all  day,"  he 
observed,  explanatorily,  as  he  counted  out  the  model's  silver, 
"  but  the  excitement  of  discovering  I  am  not  alone  in  the  world 
is  the  finishing  touch." 

Matthew  threw  a  rather  reproachful  look  at  Matt,  whose  eyes 
drooped  guiltily.  He  raised  them  immediately,  however,  in 
accordance  with  his  uncle's  instructions,  to  admire  a  study  of  a 
draped  figure  which  was  hung  on  a  wall.  The  coloring  struck 
him  agreeably,  though  he  found  a  certain  feebleness  in  the  draw- 
ing which  was  equally  agreeable  to  his  jealous  mood.  This  not 
displeasing  impression  was  borne  out  by  the  other  pictures  and 
sketches  for  which  his  uncle  besought  his  admiration :  always 
this  facile  poetic  coloring  and  this  indifferent  draughtsmanship, 
this  suggestion  of  difficulties  shirked  rather  than  of  difficulties 
overcome  ;  at  last  seen  to  be  due  to  the  conventional  composi- 
tion, most  of  the  works,  whether  in  chalk  or  water-color  or  oil, 
being  pretty  landscapes  or  single-figure  studies  in  simple  atti- 
tudes, or,  when  complicated  by  other  figures,  embracing  episodes 
which  seemed  to  have  been  transferred  direct  from  other  pict- 
ures, some  of  which,  indeed,  Matt  had  seen  either  in  the  origi- 
nals or  in  engravings.  To  his  astonishment,  Herbert,  who  had 
been  yawning  widely,  drew  his  attention  to  one  such  little  bit. 

"Don't  you  recognize  that?"  he  said.  "Dad  did  at  once. 
It's  a  quotation  from  Millais." 

Matt  looked  puzzled  at  the  phrase. 

"  'Cribbing,'  the  unwise  it  call,"  expounded  Herbert,  "and  so 
did  dad,  till  I  explained  to  him  it  was  only  quoting.  When  a 
great  writer  hits  off  a  phrase  it  passes  into  the  language,  and 
when  a  great  painter  hits  off  a  new  effect  of  technique,  or  gets 
a  happy  grouping,  I  contend  it  belongs  to  the  craft,  as  much  as 
the  primitive  tricks  of  scumbling  or  glazing.  We  praise  the 
mellow  Virgilisms  in  Tennyson,  but  we  are  down  upon  the  paint- 
er who  repeats  another's  lines.  The  Old  Masters  borrowed  un- 


174  THE    MASTER 

blushingly,  but  we  are  such  sticklers  for  originality,  which,  after 
all,  only  means  plagiarizing  nature.  Didn't  Raphael  crib  his 
composition  from  Orcagna,  and  Michael  Angelo  copy  Masaccio, 
and  Tintoretto  turn  Michael  Angelo's  Samson  into  Jupiter? 
Why,  in  the  Academy  at  Venice  I  saw — 

"  Have  you  been  to  Venice  ?"  cried  Matt,  eagerly. 

"  Herbert  has  been  to  all  the  galleries  of  Europe,"  said  his 
father,  impressively.  "  We  travel  abroad  every  year.  It's  part 
of  the  education  of  a  painter.  How  are  you  to  know  Bellini 
and  Tintoretto  if  you  don't  go  to  Venice  ?  Velasquez  and  Titian 
cannot  be  fully  studied  by  any  one  who  has  not  been  in  Madrid; 
and  the  man  who  is  ignorant  of  the  treasures  of  the  Louvre  or 
of  the  Uffizi  at  Florence,  where  " — he  interpolated  with  simu- 
lated facetiousness,  laying  his  hand  on  Herbert's  shoulder — "I 
hope  to  see  my  boy's  portrait  painted  by  his  own  hand  one 
day—" 

"  Look  at  this  queer  stone  scarab,"  interrupted  Herbert,  an- 
noyed. "  I  picked  it  up  in  Egypt ;  comes  from  inside  a  mum- 
my-case." 

Egypt !  The  word  fell  like  music  on  Matt's  ears.  The  rose- 
light  of  romance  illumined  the  uncouth  beetle.  Herbert  hastened 
to  exhibit  his  other  curios  :  coins,  medals,  cameos,  scarves,  yata- 
ghans, pottery,  ivories,  with  a  cursive  autobiographical  commen- 
tary, passing  rapidly  to  another  object  whenever  his  father 
threatened  to  take  up  the  thread  of  autobiography. 

And  as  Matt  handled  these  picturesque  trophies  of  travel,  that 
wafted  into  the  studio  the  aroma  of  foreign  bazaars,  the  wave  of 
hopelessness  resurged,  swamping  even  the  fresh  hopefulness  en- 
gendered by  the  discovery  that  his  cousin's  craftsmanship  was 
not  so  far  beyond  his  hand,  after  all ;  all  those  marvellous,  far-off 
old-world  places  that  had  disengaged  themselves  from  his  lonely 
readings,  fair  mirages  thrown  upon  a  phantasmal  sky,  not  vaguely, 
but  with  the  sensuous  definiteness  of  a  painter's  vision,  jostling 
one  another  like  the  images  in  a  shaken  kaleidoscope  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  romantic  poetry  :  Venice,  dreaming  on  its  waters  in 
an  enchanted  moonlight;  Paris,  all  life  and  light;  Spain,  with 
cathedrals  and  gypsies  and  cavaliers  tinkling  guitars  ;  Sicily, 
with  gray  olive-trees  and  sombre  cypresses  and  terraced  gar- 


THE    ELDER    BRANCH  175 

dens  and  black-eyed  peasant  women  with  red  snoods ;  the  Rhine, 
haunted  by  nixies  and  robber-chiefs,  meandering  'twixt  crum- 
bling castles  perched  on  wooded  crags ;  Egypt,  with  its  glow  and 
color,  all  lotus-blossoms  and  bulrushes  and  crocodiles  and  jasper 
idols,  and  bernoused  Arabs  galloping  on  silken  chargers  in  a  land 
of  sand  and  sphinxes  and  violet  shadows  ;  the  Indies,  east  of  the 
sun  and  west  of  the  moon,  full  of  palm-trees  and  nautch-girls 
and  bayaderes — a  shifting  panorama  of  strange  exotic  cities, 
steeped  in  romance  and  history  and  sunshine  and  semi-barbarian 
splendors,  where  the  long  desolation  of  his  native  winter  never 
came,  nor  the  clammy  vapors  of  Britain ;  cities  of  splendid 
dream,  where  anything  might  happen  and  nothing  could  seem 
unreal ;  where  Adventure  waited  masked  at  every  street  corner, 
and  Love  waved  a  white  hand  from  every  lattice.  And  in  a 
flood  of  sadness,  that  had  yet  something  delicious  in  it,  he  pitied 
himself  for  having  been  cut  off  from  all  these  delectable  expe- 
riences, which  the  happier  Herbert  had  so  facilely  enjoyed. 

"  I  know  you  are  bored,  father,"  said  Herbert,  pausing  amid 
his  exposition.  "  You  want  to  get  back  to  business,  and  Matt 
and  I  want  to  yarn." 

Matt's  bitterness  was  soothed.  It  thrilled  him  to  be  called 
Matt  by  this  rich,  refined,  travelled  young  gentleman. 

"Well,  good-bye,  my  young  friend,"  said  his  uncle,  holding  out 
his  hand  for  the  first  time.  "  I  dare  say  I  shall  see  you  again. 
Ha !  Drop  in  any  time  you're  passing.  I  think  your  mother 
will  be  wanting  you  presently,  Herbert." 

He  moved  to  the  door,  then  paused,  and,  turning  his  head  un- 
easily, said  :  "  And  if  you  ever  want  any  advice,  you  know,  don't 
hesitate  to  ask  me."  And  with  a  faint  friendly  nod  of  his  Van- 
dyke beard  he  went  out,  closing  the  door  carefully  behind  him. 

"  Awful  bore,  the  governor,"  said  Herbert,  stretching  his  arms. 
"  He  never  knows  when  he's  de  trop" 

Matt  did  not  know  what  de  trop  was,  except  when  he  saw  it 
printed,  but  the  disrespectful  tone  jarred  upon  him. 

"You  owe  him  a  good  deal,  it  seems  to  me,"  he  replied, 
simply. 

"  Hullo,  hullo,  my  young  Methodist  parson !"  and  Herbert 
threw  back  his  head  in  a  ringing  laugh  which  made  his  white 


176  THE    MASTER 

teetli  gleam  gayly.  u  Why,  do  you  think  we  owe  anything  to 
our  parents  ?  They  didn't  marry  to  oblige  us.  I  am  only  a  tool 
for  his  ambitions." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  murmured  Matt. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  oughtn't  to  talk  about  it,  perhaps,  but  you're  my 
first  cousin — the  first  cousin  I've  ever  had" — Matt  smiled,  fas- 
cinated afresh — "  and,  after  all,  it's  an  open  secret  that  he  wants 
the  name  of  Strang  to  live  in  the  annals  of  painting  —  if  it 
couldn't  be  Matthew  Strang,  it  must  be  Herbert  Strang,  and  so 
he  belongs  to  the  minor  artists'  clubs.  Of  course,  he  can't  get 
into  the  Limners',  though  he  contrives  to  be  there  on  business 
pretty  often,  and  consoles  himself  by  using  their  note  -  paper ; 
but  at  the  Gillray  and  the  Reynolds'  they  dare  not  blackball 
him,  because  the  committee  always  owe  him  money,  or  want  to 
sell  him  pictures ;  but  I  dare  say  they  laugh  at  him  behind  his 
back  when  he  jaws  to  them  about  art  in  general,  and  my  talents 
in  particular.  It's  confoundedly  annoying.  Oh,  I've  been  for- 
getting to  smoke.  What  can  be  the  matter  with  me  ?"  And  he 
pulled  out  a  lizard-skin  case,  from  which  Matt,  not  liking  to  re- 
fuse, drew  forth  a  cigarette. 

"But  what  good  does  he  do  by  belonging  to  those  clubs?" 
he  asked. 

"  Oh,  he  likes  it,  for  one  thing,"  replied  Herbert,  striking  a 
match  and  holding  it  to  Matt's  cigarette.  "  My  belief  is,  he 
only  went  into  the  picture  business  to  rub  shoulders  with  artists, 
though  where  the  charm  comes  in  I  have  never  been  able  to  find 
out,  for  a  duller,  a  more  illiterate  set  of  fellows  I  never  wish  to 
meet.  Shop  is  all  they  can  talk.  And  then,  of  course,  it's  good 
for  business.  But  in  the  background  lurks,  I  feel  sure,  the  idea 
of  advancing  my  interests,  of  accumulating  back-stairs  influence, 
of  pulling  the  ropes  that  shall  at  last  lift  me  into  the  proud  po- 
sition of  R.A.  Nay,  who  knows?"  he  said,  puffing  out  his  first 
wreath  of  smoke — "  President  of  the  Royal  Academy  !"  And  he 
laughed  melodiously. 

"  Well,  but — "  began  Matt,  inhaling  the  delicious  scent  of  the 
tobacco. 

"  Well,  but,11  echoed  Herbert.  "  That's  just  it.  My  tastes  are 
not  considered  in  the  matter  at  all.  Art!  Art!  Art!  Nothing 


THE    ELDER    BRANCH  177 

but  Art  rammed  down  my  throat  till  I'm  sick  of  the  sight  of  a 
canvas.  I  was  a  connoisseur  in  my  cradle,  and  sucked  a  maul- 
stick instead  of  a  monkey-on-a-stick,  and  I  live  in  the  midst  of 
Art  and  out  of  the  profits  of  it.  It's  pictures,  pictures  every- 
where, and  not  a —  Oh,  have  a  brandy-and-soda,  won't  you  ? 
Don't  stand  about  as  if  you  were  going."  Matt  obediently 
dropped  upon  a  lounge  that  yielded  deliciously  to  his  pressure. 
The  fragrant  smoke  curled  about  his  face,  while  his  cousin  made 
pleasant  play  with  popping  corks  and  gurgling  liquids. 

"  But  don't  you  really  like  painting  ?"  he  asked,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  I  like  some  things  in  it  well  enough,"  replied  Herbert, 
"  but  it's  such  beastly  drudgery.  All  this  wretched  copying  of 
models  is  no  better  than  photography.  And  a  camera  would 
do  the  tljing  in  a  thousandth  part  of  the  time.  I  always  work 
from  photographs  when  I  can." 

"  But  is  that  artistic  ?"  said  Matt,  slightly  shocked. 

"  It's  the  only  thing  worthy  of  the  artist's  dignity.  The 
bulk  of  art  is  journeyman's  work.  Besides,  lots  of  'em  do  it 
nowadays — with  magic-lanterns  to  boot !  Because  one  man  by 
a  fluke  happens  to  be  a  better  drawing-machine  than  another, 
is  he  to  be  counted  the  greater  artist  ?"  Matt  felt  small  before 
this  answer  to  his  secret  criticism.  "  Did  you  ever  see  the 
camera-obscura  at  the  Crystal  Palace  ?  That  does  landscapes  in 
a  jiffy  that  we  should  go  messing  over  for  months.  And  then 
think  of  the  looking-glass  !  They  talk  of  Rembrandt  and  Franz 
Hals.  I'll  back  a  bedroom  mirror  to  put  more  life  into  its  por- 
traits than  either  of  'em.  Why,  if  some  process  were  invented 
— a  sort  of  magic  mirror  to  fix  the  image,  living  and  colored,  in 
the  glass — here's  luck  !" — he  clinked  his  glass  against  Matt's — 
**  the  governor  would  have  to  shut  up  shop." 

"Yes,  but  the  mirror  hasn't  got  any  imagination,"  urged 
Matt,  setting  down  his  glass  refreshed,  the  glow  of  brandy  in 
his  throat  lending  added  intellectual  charm  to  the  discussion. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  !  There  are  distorting  mirrors,"  rejoined 
Herbert,  laughing.  "  But  you  are  quite  right.  Art  is  selection ; 
nature  a  travers  d>un  temperament.  Art  is  autobiography. 
But  painting,  which  somehow  monopolizes  the  name  of  Art,  is 

13 


178        ,  THE    MASTER 

really  the  lowest  form  of  Art.  Nature  is  full  of  scenes  quite  as 
good  as  Art.  Doesn't  Ruskin  say  an  artist  has  got  to  copy 
Nature  ?  But  is  there  anything  in  Nature  so  closely  akin  to  a 
poem,  or  to  Ruskin's  own  prose,  or  to  a  symphony  of  Beethoven, 
as  a  moonlit  sea  or  a  beautiful  woman  is  to  a  picture  ?  What 
is  the  skylark's  song  compared  to  Shelley's,  or  the  music  of  the 
sea  to  Mozart's  ?  The  real  creation  is  in  the  other  arts,  which 
are  called  literature  and  music.  They  are  an  addition  to  Nature 
— something  extra.  Painting  and  acting — these  are  mere  redu- 
plications of  Nature.  Perhaps  I  was  unfair  to  painting.  That, 
at  least,  fixes  the  beauty  of  Nature,  but  acting  is  merely  an 
evanescent  imitation  of  the  temporary." 

The  younger  man  sat  half  bewildered  beneath  this  torrent  of 
words  and  quotations ;  the  respect  Herbert  had  lost  in  his  eyes 
by  his  draughtsmanship  (a  trifling  matter  under  Herbert's  dis- 
dainful analysis)  returning,  multiplied  to  reverence,  and  with  a 
fresh  undercurrent  of  humility  and  envy  How  much  there 
was  to  know  in  the  world,  how  many  languages  and  books  and 
arts !  How  could  he  mix  with  Herbert  and  his  set  without 
being  found  out  ? 

"  That's  why  I  prefer  literature  and  music,"  said  Herbert. 
"  But  then  I'm  not  my  own  master,  like  you — you  lucky  beggar. 
If  I  had  my  way,  pictures  would  be  nothing  but  color-schemes, 
sheer  imagination,  with  no  relation  to  truth  of  Nature.  What  do 
I  care  how  her  shadows  fall,  if  they  don't  fall  gracefully  ?  And 
then  why  must  my  lines  imitate  Nature's?  That's  where  the 
Japanese  are  so  great.  Don't  smoke  that  fag-end !  Have  an- 
other !"  And  he  threw  his  cigarette-case  across  to  his  magnet- 
ized listener.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  hard,  busy  existence 
Matt  had  ever  heard  any  one  talk  like  a  book,  discussing  ab- 
stract relations  of  Art  and  Life. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  as  much  as  you,"  he  said,  naively. 

"  I  wish  I  was  as  free  as  you,"  retorted  Herbert,  laughingly ; 
"though  I  certainly  wouldn't  employ  my  liberty  as  you  do. 
What  in  Heaven's  name  made  you  want  to  study  Art?  I  did 
laugh  when  the  governor  told  the  mater  of  your  letter.  I  was 
just  in  the  roughest  grind,  and  felt  like  writing  you  on  the  sly 
to  warn  you." 


THE    ELDER    BRANCH  179 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  have  taken  your  advice,"  said  Matt, 
with  an  embarrassed  laugh. 

"  But  what  made  you  come  to  London,  anyhow  ?  Why 
didn't  you  go  to  Paris  ?" 

"  To  Paris  !" 

"  Yes  ;  there's  no  teaching  to  be  got  in  London." 

"  No  ?"     Matt  turned  pale. 

"  No.  At  least,  that's  what  everybody  says  in  England. 
Paris  alone  has  the  tradition.  Once  it  was  Holland,  once  Flor- 
ence, and  now  it's  Paris.  Why,  in  Paris  any  fellows  who  club 
together  can  get  the  biggest  men  to  visit  them  free,  gratis,  for 
nothing.  Here  the  big  pots  prefer  the  society  of  the  swells." 

"  Then  why  are  you  not  in  Paris  ?"  asked  Matt,  rallying. 

"  Ah  !  That's  where  my  governor  is  such  an  idiot.  He 
pretends  to  think  there's  more  chance  for  a  man  who's  been 
through  the  Academy  Schools ;  he  gets  known  to  the  R.A.'s, 
and  all  that.  But  his  real  reason  is  that  he's  afraid  to  trust  me 
in  Paris  by  myself." 

"  No  ?"  said  Matt,  in  sympathetic  incredulity. 

"  Yes ;  that's  why  he  had  this  room  knocked  into  a  studio 
for  me — it  always  reminds  me  of  a  nursery,  at  the  top  of  the 
house — and  even  selects  my  female  models,  knows  their  parents, 
,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  It's  all  sheer  selfishness,  I  tell  you,  and 
I'm  just  sick  of  all  this  perpetual  fussing  and  worrying  over 
me,  as  if  I  were  a  prize  pig  or  a  race-horse.  A  man  of  twenty- 
three  not  allowed  to  have  a  studio  or  chambers  of  his  own ! 
You  don't  realize  how  lucky  you  are,  my  boy.  If  I  could  afford 
it  I'd  chuck  up  the  governor  to-morrow.  But  I'm  dependent 
on  him  for  every  farthing.  And  all  he  allows  me  for  pocket- 
money  is — well,  you'd  never  guess — " 

Matt  did  not  make  the  attempt;  he  judged  Herbert  might 
think  meanly  of  even  a  pound  a  week,  but  he  did  not  dare  to 
hazard  a  guess. 

"  Three  hundred  a  year  !  And  out  of  that  I've  got  to  get  my 
clothes  and  pay  my  models,  confound  'em  !" 

Matt  stared  in  startled,  reverential  envy. 

"  Yes,  you  may  well  stare.  Why,  you  know  yourself  if  you 
buy  a  woman  a  bracelet  it  runs  away  with  a  month's  allowance. 


180  THE    MASTER 

But, talking  of  clothes,  you'll  have  to  get  better  than  those  things, 
if  you  ever  want  me  to  be  seen  with  you." 

"  These  are  quite  new,"  murmured  Matt,  in  alarm. 

"  And  original,"  added  Herbert.  "  I'll  have  to  introduce  you 
to  my  tailor." 

"Is — is  he  dear?"  Matt  stammered. 

"  If  you  pay  him,"  said  Herbert,  dryly. 

"  Oh,  I  always  pay,"  protested  Matt. 

"  You're  lucky.     /  have  to  economize." 

Matt  thought  suddenly  of  William  Gregson  with  a  throb  of 
gratitude.  At  least  his  wardrobe  boasted  of  unimpeachable 
boots.  Then  he  suddenly  espied  a  small  battalion  of  foot-gear 
ranged  against  a  wall — black  boots,  brown  boots,  patent  shoes, 
brown  shoes,  boots  with  laces,  boots  with  beautiful  buttons — 
and  he  relapsed  into  his  primitive  humility.  Uneasy  lest  Her- 
bert should  insist  on  equipping  him  similarly,  he  was  glad  to  re- 
member that  Herbert's  mother  was  expecting  her  boy,  and  with 
a  murmur  to  that  effect  rose  to  go. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Herbert,  "I'm  not  due  till  dinner-time; 
but  if  you  must  be  going,  I  think  I'll  just  stroll  a  little.  You 
go  towards  Oxford  Street,  don't  you?" 

"  Ye-es,"  faltered  Matt,  who  was  a  little  frightened  at  the 
idea  that  his  dainty  cousin  might  accompany  him  to  his  lodging. 

"All  right.  I'll  just  go  to  the  club  to  see  if  there  are  any 
letters.  There's  another  of  your  privileges,  confound  you !  I 
can't  have  any  letters  come  to  my  own  place." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?  Do  you  think  I'd  have  the  governor  nosing  my 
correspondence  ?  He'd  be  always  asking  questions.  It's  a 
jolly  little  club — I'll  put  you  up  for  it  if  you  like.  Take  an- 
other cigarette  ;  take  half  a  dozen  ;  put  'em  in  your  pocket." 

As  they  were  going  down-stairs,  Matt  said  he  would  like  to 
say  good-bye  to  Madame,  so  they  passed  into  the  sitting-room. 

"  Au  revoir,  my  dear  nephew,  au  revoir  /"  said  Madame, 
shaking  both  his  hands.  "  I  said  you  and  Herbert  would  love 
each  other.  You  will  find  your  sixpence  awaiting  you  on  the 
desk." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE     PICTURE-MAKERS 

"  FUNNY  I've  never  been  to  see  your  place.  I  must  look  you 
up  one  day."  Thus  Herbert  at  uncertain  intervals,  but  he 
never  carried  out  his  threat.  His  life  was  too  full,  and  he  had 
been  accustomed  from  childhood  to  have  the  mountain  come  to 
Mohammed.  And  so,  gradually,  Matt,  who  had  at  first  lived  half 
apprehensive  of  an  exposure,  half  wishful  that  Herbert  should 
become  rudely  aware  of  his  real  position,  surrendered  himself 
to  the  magnetism  of  his  cousin's  manner,  and  weakly  tried  to 
live  up  to  that  young  gentleman's  misconception  of  him  when- 
ever they  were  together ;  even  submitting  to  a  morning  suit 
and  an  evening  dress  from  Herbert's  tailor  for  an  undefined 
sum  at  an  unmentioned  date.  For  if  the  disadvantages  of  Her- 
bert's society  were  many,  if  he  had  to  starve  for  days  to  return 
Herbert's  club  hospitality  at  a  restaurant,  still  he  was  satisfied 
the  game  was  worth  the  candle.  From  Herbert  he  felt  himself 
acquiring  polish  and  refinement  and  impeccable  English  and 
social  lore  ;  Herbert  was  an  intellectual  stimulus,  with  thoughts 
to  give  away  and  the  newest  poets  to  lend ;  Herbert  was  bright 
and  gay,  charming  away  the  vapors  of  youthful  despondency. 
But,  above  all,  Herbert  sometimes  allowed  him  to  work  in  his 
studio,  amid  the  sensuous  beauty  of  draping  and  decoration  and 
statuary  that  lapped  his  artistic  nature  like  a  soft  summer  sea — 
a  privilege  inestimable,  but,  in  view  of  the  mere  model,  worth 
at  least  all  the  extra  money  this  friendship  cost  him.  It  befell 
thus: 

On  Matt's  second  visit  Herbert  said,  good-naturedly  : 
"  I've  just  laid  my  palette.     You  sit  down.     Let's  see  what 
you  can  do." 


182  THE    MASTER 

"May  I?"  cried  Matt,  eagerly.  There  was  a  costume-model 
on  tlie  throne — a  dark-eyed  beauty  in  Oriental  drapery. 

Herbert  relinquished  the  brush  and  threw  himself  upon  his 
back  on  the  couch,  puffing  lazily  at  his  cigarette. 

"  By  Jove !"  he  said,  after  ten  minutes,  "  you've  put  that  in 
all  right.  But  what  a  juicy  style  you've  got !  Where  did  you 
get  that  from  ?" 

"  I  can't  do  it  any  other  way,"  said  Matt,  apologetically. 

"  The  governor  told  me  you're  under  Tarmigan.  He  never 
taught  you  that  ?" 

"  No ;  but  that's  the  way  I've  always  worked.  I  did  a  lot  of 
portraits  in  Nova  Scotia." 

"  The  devil  you  did !  No  wonder  you've  made  money,  con- 
found you !  I  thought  you  were  a  blooming  ignoramus  just 
come  over  to  learn  your  pictorial  pothooks  and  hangers." 

"  I  thought  so,  too,"  said  Matt,  flushing  with  pleasure  and 
modesty. 

"None  of  your  sarcasm,  you  beggar.  You  can  finish  the 
head  if  you  like." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Matt,  flutteringly.  He  felt  as  if  Herbert 
were  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  his  own  head,  repaying  his  first 
secret  depreciation  by  over-generous  praise.  He  painted  away 
bravely,  soon  losing  himself  in  the  happy  travail  of  execution. 

"  I  must  come  down  to  your  place  and  see  your  work,"  said 
Herbert,  looking  up  from  the  volume  of  Swinburne  in  which  he 
had  immersed  himself. 

"  Oh,  there  isn't  much  !"  said  Matt,  hastily.  "  I'll  bring  you 
some  little  things  next  time.  Only  I  don't  want  your  father  to 
see  them — they're  not  for  sale." 

"You're  quite  right,"  said  Herbert.  "Don't  show  'em  to 
him.  Hush !" 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Matt,  turning  his  head. 

"  Talk  of  the— Old  Gentleman,"  said  Herbert. 

The  brush  dropped  from  the  painter's  palsied  fingers.  He 
felt  like  one  caught  red  -  handed.  He  had  already  come  in, 
somewhat  surreptitiously,  through  the  side  door,  in  obedience 
to  Herbert's  recommendation,  and  to  be  found  using  Herbert's 
appliances  and  model  would  be  the  acme  of  guiltiness. 


THE    PICTURE-MAKERS  183 

The  alarm  was  false,  but  thenceforward  "The  Old  Gentle- 
man "  indicated  Matthew  Strang  the  elder.  For  they  had  fre- 
quent occasion  to  fear  his  advent,  since  Matt  came  often,  tempt- 
ed from  his  gloomy  back  room  to  the  beautiful  light  studio, 
where  he  was  allowed  not  only  to  do  bits  of  Herbert's  work 
while  Herbert  read  or  gossiped  with  the  model,  but  occasion- 
ally to  set  up  another  easel  and  use  the  same  model.  But  they 
were  only  detected  together  twice  by  the  Vandyke  beard  and 
the  velvet  coat,  and  on  one  occasion  Herbert  had  had  time  to 
resume  the  brush,  and  on  another  to  pose  Matt  as  a  model. 

"  The  Old  Gentleman's  rather  grumpy  about  you,"  he  ad- 
mitted, with  his  customary  candor.  "  I've  had  to  tell  the  ser- 
vant not  to  mention  your  coming  so  often.  The  mater's 
mashed  on  you,  and  I  suppose  he's  a  bit  jealous.  She  wanted  to 
ask  you  to  our  dinner-party  last  night — we  had  two  Associates, 
and  a  Scotch  Academician,  and  an  American  millionaire  who 
buys  any  rot,  and  an  art  critic  who  praises  it — but  he  said  one 
didn't  give  dinner-parties  for  one's  relations,  but  for  strangers." 

As  Matt  had  already  dined  once  enfamille,  with  Madame's  guile- 
less homage  at  his  side  to  put  him  at  ease,  he  did  not  feel  himself 
hardly  used. 

His  position  with  "  The  Old  Gentleman  "  was  not  improved 
by  his  demeanor  on  an  occasion  when,  meeting  him  in  the 
doorway,  Herbert's  father,  instead  of  raising  remonstrant  eye- 
brows, astonished  him  by  asking  if  he  would  like  to  see  the  master- 
pieces he  had  in  stock.  Matt  did  not  know  that  this  generous 
offer  was  due  to  the  death  of  a  member  of  the  Institute  whose 
water-colors  had  been  accumulating  on  Matthew  Strang's  hands, 
and  who  now,  even  before  his  funeral,  was  showing  signs  of  a 
posthumous  "  boom  ;"  he  replied  eagerly  that  nothing  could  be 
a  greater  favor.  The  picture-dealer  waved  his  jewelled  hand 
with  pompous  geniality,  and,  mounting  one  flight  of  stairs,  with 
the  hand  on  Matt's  shoulder,  ushered  him  into  the  holy  of  holies, 
a  chamber  religious  with  purple  curtains  and  hushed  with  soft 
carpets,  where  the  more  precious  pictures  reposed  behind  baize 
veils  that  for  possible  purchasers  were  lifted  with  a  reverent 
silence  bespeaking  a  hundred  extra  guineas.  Long  habit  of  ritual 
awe  made  Matthew  Strang's  hands  pious  even  before  his  nephew. 


184  THE    MASTER 

But  his  nephew's  expected  ecstasies  were  tempered  by  unex- 
pected criticism.  In  an  eminent  Academician's  portrait  of  a 
lady,  Matt  pointed  out  that  the  eyes  were  wrong,  that  pupils 
should  be  round,  not  squashy,  and  that  the  hot  shad-ows  made 
by  the  Indian  reds  under  the  nose  were  inspired  by  Romney. 
He  questioned  the  veracity  of  a  landscape  by  a  costly  name,  de- 
murring to  the  light  on  the  under  sides  of  the  leaves  as  impos- 
sible under  the  conditions  depicted  ;  and  in  a  historical  com- 
position by  an  old  English  master  he  found  a  lack  of  subtlety 
in  the  legs,  and  a  stringy  feeling  throughout. 

All  this  wanton  depreciation  of  goods  by  one  who  was  not 
even  an  interested  bargainer  galled  the  picture-dealer,  conscious 
of  overflowing  good-nature,  and  prepared  for  a  natural  return  in 
breathless  adoration.  So  when  Matt  suggested  that  in  a  cele- 
brated picture  of  a  sea-beach  the  sea  had  no  fluidity  and  was 
falling  on  the  fishermen's  heads,  he  lost  his  temper  and  cried, 
sarcastically  :  "  I  think  you  had  better  open  a  school  for  R.A.'s, 
young  man !" 

Matt  flushed,  feeling  he  had  been  impertinent ;  then  his  sense 
of  justice  repudiated  the  rebuke.  It  was  of  no  use  pretending 
a  thing  was  right  when  it  wasn't,  he  protested.  He  didn't  pro- 
fess to  get  things  right  himself,  and  he  only  wished  he  could 
do  anything  half  as  good  as  the  worst  of  these  pictures.  But 
he  did  know  when  he  was  wrong,  even  if  it  wouldn't  come  right 
for  all  his  sweating  and  fuming. 

"  A  young  man  oughtn't  to  talk  till  he  can  paint,"  interrupted 
his  uncle,  severely. 

"But  you  know  what  Dr.  Johnson  says,  sir,"  Matt  remon- 
strated. "  If  you  can't  make  a  plum-pudding,  it's  no  sign  you 
can't  judge  one." 

"  Plum-puddings  and  pictures  are  very  different  things,"  said 
Matthew  Strang,  stiffly,  as  though  insulted  by  an  implicit  asso- 
ciation with  a  pastry-cook. 

"  My,  that's  ripping !"  cried  Matt,  abandoning  the  argument 
at  the  sudden  sight  of  a  fine  mellow  piece  of  portrait-painting. 
"  How  the  Old  Masters  got  the  grays !  Oh,  why  don't  people 
wear  wigs  nowadays  ?" 

This  outburst  of  enthusiasm  made  the  private  exhibition  close 


THE    PICTURE-MAKERS  185 

more  auspiciously  than  had  seemed  probable,  but  Matt  was  never 
again  invited  to  inspect  the  sacred  treasures.  His  relations  with 
his  relatives  came  to  be  limited  to  morning  visits  to  Herbert, 
whose  stairs  he  ascended  half  secretly,  to  watch  the  progress  of 
his  cousin's  studies  for  an  ambitious  picture  of  "  Daniel  before 
Nebuchadnezzar,"  the  models  for  which  he  also  used  himself. 
He  left  his  own  studies  behind  at  Herbert's  request — though 
reluctantly,  for  he  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  them — as  a  spe- 
cies of  payment  for  the  privilege.  When,  through  his  interest 
in  this  coming  masterpiece  of  Herbert's,  and  under  the  fascina- 
tion of  this  delightful  and  flattering  friendship,  he  forgot  his 
pride  and  fell  into  the  habit  of  regular  morning  work  in  Her- 
bert's company,  lunch  somehow  came  up  regularly  for  three, 
though  Madame  was  not  supposed  to  be  aware  of  his  presence. 
Those  were  joyous  lunches,  full  of  laughter  and  levity,  made 
picturesque  by  the  romantic  dress  or  undress  of  the  third  party, 
and  extra  palatable  for  Matt — when  his  first  reluctance  wore  off 
— by  the  fact  that  they  saved  dinners. 

"Daniel  before  Nebuchadnezzar"  was  intended  for  next 
year's  Academy,  Herbert  told  him,  and  he  gathered  from  his 
cousin's  casual  observations  that  it  had  also  to  be  submitted 
beforehand  to  the  professors  at  the  schools,  for  there  were 
strange  cramping  conditions  as  to  the  size  of  the  canvas  and 
the  principal  figure.  But  he  was  less  interested  in  its  destina- 
tion than  in  its  draughtsmanship.  He  saw  the  tableau  in  his 
mind's  eye  the  moment  Herbert  told  him  he  was  engaged  upon 
it,  for  the  scene  had  often  figured  itself  to  his  fancy  in  those 
far-off  days  when  his  mother  read  the  Bible  to  her  helpless 
children  by  random  prickings.  Nebuchadnezzar's  dream  was 
one  of  the  lucky  chapters,  to  which  Matt  listened  without  dis- 
traction as  the  narrative  unrolled  itself  pictorially  before  his 
inner  vision.  He  rapidly  sketched  his  conception,  then  found 
he  disliked  it,  and  ultimately  remembered  he  had  unconscious- 
ly reproduced  the  grouping  of  figures  in  the  illustration  in  his 
mother's  Bible,  one  of  those  he  had  colored  in  his  childish 
naughtiness.  Herbert  protested  this  was  no  drawback,  but  Matt 
went  away  brooding  over  a  more  artistic  arrangement,  and 
dreamed  that  he  was  mangled  by  lions  in  a  den.  But  in  the 


186  THE    MASTER 

morning  he  brought  a  new  grouping  for  Herbert's  considera- 
tion. This  Herbert  picked  to  pieces  as  being  against  the  canons. 

"  Don't  forget  it's  for  the  Academy,"  he  said.  "  We  mustn't 
make  mistakes  in  grammar.  Some  of  the  old  buffers  are  worse 
than  Tarmigan." 

"  Damn  Tarmigan !"  cried  Matt,  but  he  had  to  admit  rue- 
fully that  his  scheme  was  full  of  solecisms.  He  had  by  this 
time  as  full  an  acquaintance  with  the  rules  as  his  senior,  but 
with  Herbert  they  had  become  instinctive.  It  was  with  a  re- 
newed sense  of  inferiority  to  his  cousin,  paradoxically  com- 
bined with  an  inward  raging  against  the  Lindley  Murrays  of 
art,  that  Matt  abandoned  point  after  point  under  Herbert's 
searching  criticism.  Herbert's  gift  of  pulling  other  people's 
ideas  to  pieces  amounted  to  genius.  But  he  abandoned  his 
original  sketch  also,  dismissed  his  projected  models,  and  de- 
voted himself  to  arguing  out  the  composition  afresh. 

Under  the  banter  of  the  art-critic  smoking  cynically  on  the 
sofa,  Matt  was  put  upon  his  mettle  to  group  all  the  figures  and 
dispose  the  lines  so  as  to  escape  the  pitfalls  lurking  on  every 
side,  and  likewise  satisfy  the  conditions  of  the  pedantic  pro- 
fessors. 

"  We  must  get  as  much  subject  as  possible  into  it,"  explained 
Herbert.  "  They  give  you  such  a  small  space— only  fifty  by 
forty — that  you  must  crowd  all  you  know  into  it." 

Gradually  the  composition  took  shape,  with  infinite  discus- 
sion, daily  renewed.  Matt  was  for  pillars  with  curious  effects 
of  architecture.  Herbert  objected  that  pillars  would  make  the 
perspective  too  difficult,  and  only  consented  on  the  laughing 
stipulation  that  Matt  should  work  out  the  angles.  And  Her- 
bert was  very  averse  from  Matt's  suggestions  of  strange  origi- 
nal attitudes  for  the  figures. 

"  That  '11  make  some  awfully  stiff  foreshortening,"  he  grum- 
bled. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  You'll  have  models,"  Matt  would 
reply. 

"  It's  all  very  well.  You  haven't  got  to  do  the  work,"  Her- 
bert would  retort. 

And  when  the  grouping  was  settled,  the  color  and  the  dra 


THE    PICTURE-MAKERS  187 

pery  brought  fresh  argumentation,  the  young  men  working  as  at 
a  chess  problem  till  the  puzzle  of  arriving  at  the  original  with- 
out deserting  the  Academic  was  solved.  And  as,  in  the  solution 
of  a  chess  problem  by  a  pair  of  heads,  the  suggestion  of  the 
winning  moves  has  been  so  obscured  by  the  indefinite  suggest- 
ion of  abortive  moves  by  both,  that  neither  remembers  to 
which  the  final  discovery  of  the  right  track  was  due,  so  Matt 
would  have  been  surprised  to  be  told  that  the  ideas  that  had 
been  retained  were  all  his,  and  the  ideas  that  had  been  rejected 
were  all  Herbert's.  The  thought  of  apportioning  their  shares 
in  the  final  scheme  never  crossed  his  mind,  even  though  it  was 
his  hand  that  always  held  the  experimentative  pencil.  Indeed, 
the  technical  interest  of  the  task  had  absorbed  every  other 
thought,  and  the  details  of  the  tentative  were  lost  in  the  tri- 
umph of  the  achieved,  and  obscured  as  by  a  cigarette  cloud  of 
happy  mornings. 

And  then  Herbert  told  his  father  he  must  have  new  models 
fresh  to  studios. 

"  I  don't  want  'em  from  Haverstock  Hill  or  Lillie  Road,"  he 
said — "women  who've  been  hung  in  every  gallery.  I  don't 
want  your  Italians  from  Hatton  Garden,  or  professionals  that 
any  of  the  other  fellows  might  get  hold  of  and  extract  my 
ideas  from.  Besides,  new  faces  will  give  me  a  better  chance." 

And  Matthew  Strang  the  Elder  recognized  there  was  some 
reason  in  his  son's  request ;  but  he  pointed  out  it  was  not  so 
easy  to  go  outside  the  stock  families,  especially  for  figure 
models,  and  that  old  hands  often  helped  the  painter.  But  Her- 
bert easily  overrode  his  objections.  It  was  only  the  conven- 
tional attitudinizings  and  foreshortenings  which  they  under- 
stood, the  quotations  of  art,  which  he  was  now  about  to  abandon 
in  deference  to  paternal  prejudice  ;  and  so  Matthew  Strang,  mor- 
bidly solicitous,  obediently  brought  picturesque  Orientals  for 
Daniel  and  the  King  and  the  satraps  and  the  counsellors,  and 
blushing  brunettes  for  the  beauties  of  the  Court ;  and  Herbert  set 
to  work  to  reproduce  in  large  on  the  canvas  Matt's  rough  char- 
coal scheme  of  the  whole,  and  his  own  or  Matt's  studies  of  the 
parts ;  and  when  Herbert  blundered,  Matt  suggested  with  pastel 
a  change  of  tone  or  color  or  outline,  sometimes  even  taking  up 


188  THE    MASTER 

the  brush  when  Herbert  was  lazy  —  as  Herbert  often  was. 
Matt  was  never  surprised  to  find  the  work  no  more  advanced 
than  when  he  had  gone  away  the  morning  before,  for  Herbert's 
mind  was  on  many  and  more  important  things.  The  Academy 
students  were  rehearsing  a  burlesque  which  he  had  written  for 
their  dramatic  society,  and  he  sometimes  slipped  out  to  the 
rehearsals,  lamenting  to  Matt  that,  through  his  father's  insist- 
ence on  steady  work,  he  could  not  even  play  in  his  own  piece. 
The  only  recreation  allowed  him  was  a  ride  in  the  Park  on  a 
hired  hack,  and  even  that,  he  grumbled,  was  to  enable  him  to 
salute  cantering  R.A.'s.  Sometimes  he  went  to  tea  with  the 
girl  students  at  restaurants.  Sometimes  he  went  to  balls,  and 
was  too  tired  on  the  day  after  to  do  anything  but  describe 
them.  They  were  always  painters'  dances ;  "  The  Old  Gentle- 
man blocks  others,"  he  said.  On  one  occasion  the  host  was 
an  R.A.,  whose  son  was  a  fellow-student  at  the  schools,  and 
then  "  The  Old  Gentleman  chortled." 

Then  there  was  the  students'  ball,  to  which  he  convoyed 
Matt,  who  was  quite  dazzled  by  the  elegance  and  refinement 
of  the  ladies,  and  almost  afraid  to  speak  to  his  partners,  and 
torn  afresh  with  envy  of  the  beautiful  life  from  which  he  had 
been,  and  must  long  be,  shut  out;  not  losing  his  discomfort 
till,  after  the  supper  (at  which  he  tasted  champagne  for  the 
first  time),  Herbert's  special  circle  danced  the  Lancers  with  a 
zest  and  entrain  that  horrified  some  of  the  matrons,  and 
brought  back  to  Matt  the  dear  old  nights  when  he  took  the 
barn  floor  with  little  Ruth  Hailey,  under  the  placid  gaze  of 
the  cows  and  amid  the  odors  of  the  stable  and  the  hay-mow. 

For  other  memorable  experiences,  too,  Matt  was  indebted  to 
his  easy-going  cousin.  There  was  Herbert's  club,  the  Bohe- 
mian, a  cosey  little  place  favored  by  actors  and  journalists,  cari- 
catures of  whose  sensuous  faces  lined  the  walls  in  company 
with  oil-paintings  and  sketches  more  sensuous  still.  Matt  felt 
measureless  reverence  for  the  men  he  brushed  against  here. 
He  had  seen  some  of  them  before  in  the  illustrated  papers 
which  he  read  in  shop -windows  or  penny  news-rooms  or 
Herbert's  studio,  and  he  trembled  lest  they  should  detect,  from 
his  embarrassment  amid  the  varied  knives  and  forks  and 


THE    PICTURE-MAKERS  189 

glasses,  that  he  was  only  a  boor  with  less  education  than  the 
waiters.  He  wondered  what  the  clever,  cultured  people  — 
scraps  of  whose  conversation  floated  across  to  him  amid  the 
popping  of  soda-water  corks  —  would  think  if  they  knew  he 
had  planted  potatoes,  chopped  logs,  made  sugar  in  the  woods, 
and  climbed  masts  and  steeples.  In  the  new  snobbishness 
with  which  their  society  had  infected  him  he  could  not  see 
that  these  things  were  education,  not  humiliation,  and  he  was 
glad  that  even  Herbert  knew  little  of  his  history,  and  asked  less. 
Of  other  people's  histories,  on  the  other  hand,  Matt  heard  a 
great  deal.  "Bubbles"  had  robbed  him  of  his  belief  in  royal 
virtue ;  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  Bohemians  society  fell  to 
pieces  like  a  house  of  cards,  in  building  which,  as  Herbert 
once  said,  the  knaves  alone  had  been  used.  It  was  a  racing, 
dicing,  drinking,  swindling,  fornicating  fraternity,  worm-eaten 
with  hypocrisy.  Sincerity  or  simplicity  was  "  all  my  eye ;" 
there  was  always  money  or  a  woman  or  position  in  the  back- 
ground. 

"  They  talk  a  lot  of  scandal,"  Matt  once  complained. 

"  My  dear  Matt,"  remonstrated  Herbert,  "  it's  not  scandal ; 
it's  gossip.  Brixton  gossips  about  who  marries  whom,  Bohemia 
about  who  lives  with  whom.  Scandal  implies  -censure." 

Despite  the  scandal  ,(or  the  gossip),  Matt  was  full  of  curi- 
osity to  see  this  strange  new  life  of  clubs  and  restaurants  and 
theatres  (to  which  Herbert  sometimes  got  paper  admissions), 
this  feverish  realm  of  intellect  and  gayety,  where  nobody  seemed 
to  want  for  anything ;  but  it  sometimes  came  over  him  with  an 
odd  flash  of  surprise  and  bitterness,  as  he  caught  the  gleam  of 
white  scented  shoulders,  or  saw  heavy-jowled  satyrs  swilling 
champagne,  that  all  this  settled  luxury  had  been  going  on  while 
he  was  tramping  the  snowy  roads  of  what  might  have  been 
another  planet. 

The  feeling  wore  off  as  the  London  season  advanced,  and 
the  tide  of  luxurious  life  rolled  along  the  great  sunny  thor- 
oughfares, or  flecked  the  midnight  streets  with  darting  points 
of  fire.  His  Puritan  conscience,  curiously  persisting  beneath 
all  the  scepticism  engendered  by  his  mother's  tragedy,  had  at 
first  acquiesced  but  uneasily  in  the  unscriptural  view  of  life 


190  THE    MASTER 

that  seemed  to  prevail  around  him.  But  fainter  and  fainter 
grew  its  prickings,  the  sensuous  in  him  ripened  in  this  liberal 
atmosphere,  and  that  Greek  conception  of  a  beautiful  world 
which,  budding  for  him  in  solitude,  had  been  almost  nipped  by 
the  same  cruel  tragedy,  flowered  now  in  the  heats  of  an  ardent 
city. 

"  The  Old  Gentleman  "  was  in  such  good-humor  at  the  sur- 
prising progress  of  Herbert's  "  Daniel  before  Nebuchadnezzar " 
that  Madame's  gentle  remonstrance  that  he  ought  to  do  some- 
thing for  Matt  touched  a  responsive  chord,  and  before  the  Acad- 
emy sending  -  in  day  Matt  had  the  privilege  of  being  escorted 
by  his  uncle,  in  company  with  Herbert,  to  a  conversazione  at  the 
Reynolds  Club,  of  which  the  dealer  was  a  member.  Herbert 
was  soon  lost  in  the  crush  of  second-rate  painters  and  engravers 
and  obscurely  famous  visitors  who  gathered  before  the  mem- 
bers' would-be  Academy  pictures  that  lined  the  walls,  or  the 
second-rate  entertainers  who  struck  attitudes  on  the  dais  ;  but 
Matt  was  too  nervous  amid  this  congestion  of  celebrities  to  de- 
tach himself  from  his  uncle,  who  did  the  honors  grandly,  point- 
ing out  the  lions  of  the  club  with  a  proprietorial  air.  Matt 
could  not  but  feel  that  his  uncle  (who  was  of  the  swallow-tailed 
minority)  was  himself  one  of  the  lions  of  the  club,  and  in  very 
truth  he  was  its  most  distinguished -looking  member.  "The 
refreshments  are  not  gratis,"  he  told  Matt,  "  but  of  course  you 
can  have  anything  you  like  at  my  expense.  Will  you  have  a 
cup  of  coffee,  or  are  you  one  of  those  degenerate  young  men 
who  can't  live  without  whiskey-and-water  ?"  But  Matt  had  no 
appetite  for  anything ;  he  was  too  fluttered  by  this  close  con- 
tact with  the  giants  of  the  brush.  He  listened  eagerly  to  mor- 
sels of  their  dialogue,  strained  his  vision  to  see  them  through 
the  smoky,  lamplit  air ;  critical  as  he  might  have  been,  and 
was,  before  their  work,  the  men  themselves  were  shrouded  in 
a  vague  splendor  of  achievement.  They  had  all  been  hung. 

There  seemed  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  a  virulent  article  of 
comprehensive  condemnation  in  the  art  columns  of  the  Satur- 
day Spectator  ;  everybody  seemed  to  have  read  it  and  nobody 
to  have  written  it.  For  the  rest,  compliments  crossed  like  smil- 
ing couples  in  the  quadrille. 


THE    PICTURE-MAKERS  193 

"  What  a  stunning  landscape  that  is  of  yours,  Rapper !"  said 
Wilfred  Smith,  a  journalist  so  ignorant  of  painting  that  he  was 
suspected  of  art  criticism.  "  Quite  like  a  Corot." 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing ;  just  knocked  off  for  a  color-blind  old 
Johnny  who  admires  me,"  replied  Rapper,  deprecatingly.  He 
was  a  moon-faced  man  with  a  double  eyeglass  on  a  gold  cord. 
"  It's  rotten,  really  ;  I'm  awfully  ashamed  of  it."  And  he  el- 
bowed his  way  towards  it. 

"  So  he  ought  to  be,  and  so  ought  you  to  be  ashamed,  Wil- 
fred," said  Morrison,  the  poet  of  pessimism  and  music-halls. 
"  It's  just  like  those  splashes  of  silvery  gray  they  sell  for  Corots 
on  the  Boulevards." 

"  That's  what  I  meant,"  said  Wilfred.  "  Didn't  you  see  I  was 
guying  him  ?  Hullo,  Clinch,  I've  been  admiring  that  water-color 
of  yours.  What  an  exquisite  face  the  girl  has !" 

"It  isn't  a  water-color,  you fool;  it's  a  pastel,"  said 

Clinch,  gruffly. 

"  That's  what  I  meant — not  an  oil-color,"  replied  Wilfred, 
unabashed. 

Matt  stared  with  interest  at  the  picture,  which  was  just  be- 
side him.  The  face  was  indeed  exquisite  with  the  peculiar 
delicacy  of  pastel.  He  looked  at  the  painter's  own  face,  coarse 
and  splotched,  the  teeth  fouled  by  endless  tobacco.  It  was  as 
though  Pan  should  paint  Psyche. 

"  I  see  the  Saturday  Spectator  doesn't  understand  your  *  Car- 
olina,' Clinch,"  said  the  poet,  smiling. 

Clinch  damned  the  Saturday  Spectator  in  a  string  of  unlovely 
oaths,  which  were  drowned  by  the  music  of  a  violin  and  a  piano. 
He  did  not  care  a  twopenny  damn  what  people  scribbled  about 
him  ;  his  pictures  were  there,  just  the  same. 

"But  what  does  'Carolina'  mean,  old  man?"  said  the  poet, 
appealingly. 

Clinch  replied  that  literary  fellows  were  invariably  sangui- 
nary fools  who  fancied  that  painting  meant  things  and  could  be 
explained  in  words.  He  had  just  been  reading  about  the  sig- 
nificance of  Leonardo's  backgrounds  in  some  rotten  book  on  the 
Renaissance.  In  reality  those  bits  of  landscape  must  have  been 
put  in  and  painted  out  a  dozen  times  before  Leonardo  had  struck 


192  THE    MASTER 

the  color-harmony  he  tried  after.  Morrison  retorted  that  if  the 
art-critic  could  paint  he  would  become  a  partisan,  tied  to  his 
own  talent.  As  it  was,  he  could  approach  other  men's  pictures 
without  prejudice. 

"  But  also  without  knowledge,"  Clinch  replied,  goaded.  He 
pointed  out  brutally  that  to  learn  painting  meant  to  learn  a  new 
set  of  symbols.  "  If  you  wanted  to  paint  that  lamp,"  he  said, 

"you'd  probably  put  down  a line  to  get  that  edge,  and  so 

lose  all  the softness.  A  real  line  wouldn't  look  a bit 

like  the  real  thing.  Same  with  color ;  real  red  wouldn't  give 
red.  Painting  is  all  subterfuge,  optical  illusion.  Color  and  form 
are  only  an  affair  of  relations." 

He  went  on  to  explain,  with  punctilious  profanities,  that  to 
study  the  relation  of  that  lamp  to  the  piano-lid  was  enough  for 
a  picture ;  treated  perfectly,  there  would  be  a  poetry  and  mys- 
tery about  it.  Beauty,  too,  was  only  an  affair  of  relations,  and 
in  "  Carolina"  he  had  been  trying  to  get  a  beautiful  relation  be- 
tween two  ugly  things,  and  an  early  Georgian  feeling  into  a 
nineteenth-century  interior,  with  a  scientific  accuracy  of  tones 
known  only  to  modern  French  art. 

Matt  listened  eagerly,  wincing  a  little  at  the  livelier  oaths, 
but  conscious  of  piquant  perspectives,  of  novel  artistic  vision, 
which,  if  not  quite  intelligible,  was  in  refreshing  contrast  with 
Tarmigan's  old-fashioned  orthodoxy. 

"  But  you  had  the  same  woman  in  your  picture  of  the  '  Salva- 
tion Lass,'  "  persisted  the  poet. 

Clinch  explained  that  if  writing  chaps  knew  what  it  was  to 
hunt  for  a  satisfactory  model,  they'd  thank  their  stars  they 
didn't  know  a  palette  from  a  planchette.  A  "  swell  woman  " 
that  really  expressed  your  idea  you  couldn't  get  to  sit  for  you, 
and  if  you  could  get  her  you  couldn't  swear  at  her.  Besides,  it 
was  his  ambition  to  create  a  new  type  of  feminine  beauty,  and 
impose  her  on  his  period  —  une  femme  de  Clinch  !  Wilfred 
Smith  took  mental  notes,  prepared  henceforward  to  expound 
Clinch  to  an  ignorant  world. 

"  It's  about  time  he  got  a  new  model,  anyway,"  he  said,  when 
the  repulsive-looking  artist  had  moved  off. 

"  Or  painted  her,'*  added  Morrison,  dryly. 


THE    PICTURE-MAKERS  193 

Matt  had  a  flash  of  resentment.  The  picture  was  to  him  a 
dainty  dream  of  cool  color  and  graceful  form.  Despite  his  as- 
sociation with  Herbert,  he  did  not  yet  understand  the  tempera- 
ment that  strides  to  Wit  over  Truth's  body. 

"  Isn't  it  funny  a  man  like  that  should  draw  such  refined 
women  ?"  he  could  not  help  remarking  to  his  cicerone. 

Matthew  Strang  assumed  an  oracular  expression.  "  Art's 
just  a  knack,"  he  said.  "  You've  got  to  be  born  with  it.  I 
wasn't,  more's  the  pity ;  but  Herbert  makes  up  for  it,  thank 
Heaven  !  Art's  got  nothing  to  do  with  character.  I've  paid 
many  a  man  to  do  me  so  many  easel-pictures  a  year,  and  do 
you  suppose  I  ever  got  them  ?  The  rogues  get  drunk  or  die  or 
something,  but  they  never  come  up  to  time." 

Matt  was  puzzled.  If  Art  demanded  anything,  it  seemed  to 
him  it  was  steadfastness  and  sobriety.  The  truth  about  it 
seemed  to  lie  in  those  lines  he  had  read  in  a  volume  of  Matthew 
Arnold,  borrowed  from  Herbert : 

"  Young,  gay, 

Radiant,  adorned  outside;  a  hidden  ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within." 

A  sudden  fear  that  he  was  not  a  genius  himself  was  like  a  vivi- 
sector's  knife  through  his  heart,  laying  bare  with  painful  incision 
its  secret  hope. 

"  Do  you  think  Clinch  gets  his  effects  without  bothering  ?" 
he  asked,  with  anxiety. 

"  O  heavens  !  no,"  said  Matthew  Strang,  authoritatively.  "  I 
once  watched  him  at  work.  He  was  squatted  on  a  tiny  stool, 
looking  up  at  his  picture,  and  painting  upward.  He  had  a 
cigarette  in  his  mouth,  which  he  was  always  relighting.  Every 
now  and  then  he  would  sigh  heavily,  or  swear  at  himself  or  his 
model,  and  sometimes  he  would  go  and  lie  on  the  hearth-rug 
and  stare  solemnly  at  the  canvas  ;  then  jump  up,  give  one  touch, 
swear  if  it  went  wrong,  paint  it  out,  and  then  go  and  stand  in 
the  corner  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  probably  in  meditation, 
but  looking  exactly  like  a  naughty  little  boy  at  school." 

Matt  smiled,  half  at  the  picture  of  Clinch  in  the  corner,  half 
from  relief  at  finding  that  even  men  who  swore  and  drank  far 

13 


194  THE    MASTER 

more  than  he  did  suffered  quite  as  acutely  in  the  parturition 
of  the  Beautiful.  He  fell  back  on  th%  theory  of  an  essential 
inner  delicacy  behind  the  occasionally  coarse  envelope  of  artis- 
tic genius,  just  as  grossness  could  lurk  beneath  a  gentlemanly 
refinement. 

They  ultimately  found  Herbert  in  the  billiard-room,  with  a  cue 
in  one  hand  and  a  "  soda-and-whiskey  "  in  the  other.  "  I  don't 
want  to  look  at  the  pictures,"  he  protested.  "  If  they're  decent 
I'll  see  them  in  the  Academy,  and  if  they're  rot  it's  waste  of  time 
seeing  them  at  all.  As  for  the  entertainment,  you  can  get  a  bet- 
ter at  any  music-hall — at  least,  so  I've  been  told."  Neverthe- 
less, he  himself  took  Matt  to  another  conversazione  the  same 
week,  the  far  more  homely  gathering  of  the  St.  George's  Sketch- 
ing Club,  where  the  refreshments  were  gratis  and  evening  dress 
was  taboo,  and  really  famous  people  scrambled  for  the  bread- 
and-cheese  and  beer,  of  which  there  was  not  enough,  and  mem- 
bers disported  themselves  in  their  models'  costumes  for  the 
edification  of  a  company  which  had  turned  its  back  on  their 
pictures.  For  the  Academy  itself  Matt  paid  his  shilling,  into 
such  extravagant  habits  had  he  slipped  since  the  days  of  his 
arrival  in  London,  when  a  National  Gallery  catalogue  was  be- 
yond his  far  fatter  purse.  But  he  came  away  much  less  inspired 
than  from  that  momentous  visit,  his  imagination  untouched, 
save  once  or  twice,  as  by  Erie-Smith's  personalized  projections 
of  mediaeval  romance,  in  which  the  absence  of  real  atmos- 
phere seemed  only  natural.  There  were  so  many  smooth  por- 
traits of  uninteresting  people  that  he  was  reminded  drearily  of 
his  Nova  -  Scotian  drudgery,  when  his  heaven-scaling  spirit  had 
to  stoop  to  portray  and  please  some  tedious  farmer  who  was 
sometimes  not  even  picturesque.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  how 
unfair  was  the  latent  comparison  with  the  National  Gallery ;  he 
forgot  that  Art  is  short  and  the  Academy  long,  that  one  can  no 
more  expect  a  batch  of  great  pictures  every  year  than  a  batch 
of  great  novels  or  of  great  symphonies. 

Tarmigan  had  a  picture  of  "  The  Rape  of  the  Sabines."     It 

was  hung  on  the  line,  and  Grainger's  was  very  proud  of  it.     In 

'the  discussion  on  the  Academy  (which  supplied  the  class  with 

the  materials  for  a  fortnight's  carping)  it  was  the  only  picture 


THE    PICTURE-MAKERS  195 

that  escaped  even  "  Bubbles's  "  depreciation,  though  he  declared 
he  would  never  himself  paint  like  that,  which  the  curly-headed 
wag  eagerly  admitted.  One  of  the  students  had  secured  a  place 
in  the  "  skies,"  and  his  success  made  Matt  regret  he  himself  had 
not  dared  to  send  in. 

Grainger's  own  contribution  had  been  rejected,  which  made 
his  pupils  think  more  highly  of  themselves. 

Matt  was  more  interested  in  the  Azure  Art  Gallery,  a  little 
exhibition  (mainly  of  landscapes  with  violet  shadows)  held  by 
some  young  men  about  whom  Herbert  was  enthusiastic ;  for 
they  did  not  attempt,  said  he,  to  vie  either  with  the  camera  or 
the  conte.  "  If  painting  be  an  art  at  all,"  he  contended,  "  it  can 
only  be  so  by  virtue  of  ignoring  Nature.  As  Goethe  said,  *  We 
call  art  Art  because  it  is  not  Nature.'  The  musician  works  up 
notes,  the  poet  syllables  into  a  music  unlike  anything  in  Nature, 
and  so  must  the  painter  work  up  Nature's  colors  and  forms  un- 
der the  sole  guidance  of  his  artistic  instinct.  And  whatever 
can  be  better  expressed  in  words  has  no  place  in  painting. 
These  young  men's  pictures  tell  no  stories,  and  no  truths  either. 
They  are  merely  concerned  with  color  and  line." 

Matt  afterwards  found  that,  with  the  exception  of  a  couple  of 
Scotchmen,  these  young  men  by  no  means  accepted  Herbert's 
account  of  their  aims ;  indeed,  they  rather  regarded  it  as  satiri- 
cal, for  to  give  truer  impressions  of  Nature  was  precisely  their 
boast  and  glory.  Although  Matt  could  not  always  credit  them 
with  success  in  this,  still  he  found  a  note  of  life  and  fantasy  in 
their  work.  He  was  especially  struck  by  Cornpepper's  "  Chim- 
ney on  Fire  in  Fitzroy  Street  " — a  flight  of  sparks  falling  and 
curving  in  a  golden  rain,  in  vivid  contrast  with  the  dark,  starlit 
sky  above  and  the  black  mass  of  spectators  below,  faintly  illu- 
mined by  street-lamps,  and  broken  at  the  extreme  end  by  the 
brassy  gleam  of  the  fire-engine  tearing  up  the  street.  There 
were  inaccuracies  of  detail,  but  Matt  was  immensely  impressed  i 
by  the  originality  of  the  subject  and  the  touch  of  weirdness, 
and  it  was  with  joy  that  he  accepted  Herbert's  offer  to  take  him 
to  the  Azure  Art  Club,  where  Cornpepper  and  his  clique  mostly 
forgathered.  Since  Herbert  had  misinterpreted  them  to  his 
cousin,  Matt  had  read  a  good  deal  about  them  in  the  papers,  and 


196  THE    MASTER 

they  had  held  forth  brilliantly  to  interviewers  on  the  veracity 
of  their  rendering  of  Nature,  Cornpepper  going  so  far  as  to 
claim  that  you  could  not  look  at  his  landscapes  without  feeling 
— from  the  color  of  stone  and  sea,  from  the  tints  of  the  sky  and 
the  disposition  of  the  clouds — what  o'clock  it  was.  Whereupon 
the  interviewer  had  consulted  a  study  of  poppies  on  a  cliff,  and 
reported  that  it  was  half-past  eleven,  Cornpepper  crying  "  Cor- 
rect !"  All  of  which  did  not  fail  to  provoke  counterblasts  from 
the  Academic  camp  and  from  the  irresponsible  concocters  of 
facetious  paragraphs. 

It  was  all  very  small — the  feeble  British  refraction  of  the 
great  Gallic  battle  then  waging,  of  the  campaign  of  plein  air 
and  modern  subject  against  bituminous  landscapes  and  classic 
conventions,  the  expurgated  English  edition  of  the  eternal  bat- 
tle of  youth  and  age,  spiritless  as  the  bouts  of  boxers  in  a 
Quaker  land,  sans  prize-rings  or  hero-worshippers  ;  the  shadowy 
warfare  of  art  in  a  Puritan  country  vibrating  only  to  politics 
and  religion,  indifferent  to  style,  gauging  literature  merely  by 
its  message  and  art  by  its  idea. 

But  Matt  was  not  a  true-born  Briton,  and  his  own  aversion 
from  an  unreal  Nature  doctored  and  tricked  up,  in  which  an 
artificial  chiaroscuro  took  the  place  of  observation  and  atmos- 
phere, led  him  into  instant  sympathy  with  this  painting  of  "  real 
moments,"  with  this  presentation  of  "  Nature  caught  in  the  fact," 
as  Cornpepper  brilliantly  defined  the  Impressionism  he  had 
smuggled  over  from  Paris.  Even  if  Nature  was  not  so  violet 
as  she  was  painted,  Matt  felt  the  mistake  was  on  the  right  side. 
And  who  but  Cornpepper  had  revealed  and  interpreted  the 
mystery  and  poetry  of  the  night?  True,  he  was  rather  stag- 
gered to  remember,  it  was  impossible  to  paint  the  night  with 
your  eye  on  the  object.  The  night  side  of  Nature  might  be 
caught  in  the  fact ;  it  could  not  be  arrested  in  the  fact. 

Herbert  was  not  a  member  of  the  Azure  Art  Club ;  they  had 
to  call  on  a  man  in  Kensington  to  get  him  to  take  them  there. 
He  proved  to  be  no  other  than  the  moon-faced  Rapper,  whom 
Herbert  had  invited  to  invite  them  to  dinner. 

"  He's  an  awful  duffer,"  he  said,  enviously,  "  but  he  has  a  flat 
of  his  own  and  an  income  of  his  own,  and  he's  had  the  run  of 


THE    PICTURE-MAKERS  197 

i 

Copenhagen,  Paris,  and  Antwerp.  They  say  Copenhagen  is 
worse  than  Paris." 

Rapper  made  them  stay  to-  admire  his  rooms.  "  Don't  look 
at  my  pictures,"  he  said ;  "  that's  only  a  portrait  I'm  doing  of 
Riggs,  the  bucket-shop  keeper.  I'm  an  awful  duffer;  why  I 
should  get  so  many  commissions  at  a  hundred  and  fifty  guineas 
when  there's  lots  of  geniuses  starving,  I  never  can  make  out. 
I  suppose  it's  because  I  don't  want  the  money — I  shall  only 
blue  it  at  Monte  Carlo.  I've  only  just  come  back  from  the 
country — a  J.P.,  an  awful  screw.  He  made  me  do  him  and  his 
wife  for  two-fifty.  Still,  they're  only  half-lengths.  Do  try 
some  of  this  Burgundy  ;  it's  genuine.  I  import  it  direct  from  a 
small  grower.  I  get  a  huge  barrel  for  five  pounds,  and  pay 
three  pounds  duty,  and  get  hundreds  of  bottles  out  of  it.  Peo- 
ple don't  know  how  to  get  wine  in  England.  Oh,  do  please 
look  at  that  Limoges  enamel  over  the  mantel-piece,  Mr.  Strang ; 
it's  far  better  worth  looking  at  than  that  daub  of  a  library." 

"  I  always  prefer  to  look  at  pictures,"  said  Matt,  apologeti- 
cally. 

"  It  is  rather  a  strong  bit  of  color,"  admitted  Rapper. 

"  Yes.  Do  you  think  the  light  is  accounted  for  ?"  asked  Matt. 
"  That  red  glow — " 

"  Don't  you  see  the  library  lamp  ?"  rejoined  Rapper. 

"  Yes,  but  the  shade's  off ;  and  even  then,  isn't  it  more  like 
firelight?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !"  replied  Rapper,  hotly.  "  Do  you  suppose 
I  didn't  study  the  effects  with  a  lighted  lamp  ?  That's  a  good 
bit  of  action  in  the  old  scholar's  arm,  reaching  for  the  book." 

Matt  examined  it  carefully. 

"  The  forearm  is  a  little  out  of  drawing,  isn't  it — a  little  too 
long  ?"  he  asked,  timidly. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  the  model  had  an  unusually  long  forearm. 
You  don't  suppose  everybody  is  alike.  Of  course  it  isn't  near 
finished  yet.  But  really  I  was  trying  for  color  more  than  for 
line ;  and,  after  all,  it's  the  careless  draughtsmanship  of  a  man 
who  can  draw.  It  attracted  quite  a  lot  of  notice  at  the  Azure  Art 
Gallery  last  year,  but  I  put  a  big  price  on  it,  so  that  it  shouldn't 
sell,  and  I'd  have  time  to  work  it  up.  That's  a  little  bust  of 


198  THE    MASTER 

myself ;  it's  only  plaster  of  Paris  bronzed  over.  I  model  ever 
so  much  better  than  I  paint,  but  nobody  will  give  me  a  com- 
mission. Isn't  it  funny  ?  Do  have  some  more  of  the  Bur- 
gundy. I'm  not  much  of  an  artist,  but  I  flatter  myself  I  do 
know  a  good  wine." 

Before  they  left  he  presented  them  with  photographs  of  his  li- 
brary picture,  apparently  forgetting  that  he  hadn't  near  finished  it. 

"  I  say,  I  can't  go  about  with  you  if  you  go  on  like  this," 
whispered  Herbert  to  Matt,  as  Rapper  lingered  to  extinguish 
his  gas  and  lock  his  door.  "  Fancy  telling  a  chap  his  faults. 
You  mustn't  go  by  me  and  my  Nebuchadnezzar.  I  rather  like 
to  be  pitched  into.  It  keeps  a  fellow  from  getting  conceited." 

"  I  didn't  know,"  Matt  murmured,  with  a  new  admiration  for 
Herbert,  who  had  already  become  a  hero  to  him,  moving  so 
brilliantly  amid  all  these  shining  circles.  The  three  young  men 
got  into  a  hansom  and  smoked  Rapper's  cigars.  At  the  lit- 
tle club,  which  was  only  ten  minutes  off,  they  dined  in  a  long, 
narrow,  drab-painted  room,  with  a  billiard-table  near  the  door. 
Several  men,  whose  work  Matt  had  studied  with  interest,  were 
dining  in  their  vicinity.  Matt  strained  his  ears  to  catch  their 
conversation,  but  it  seemed  to  be  all  about  the  billiard-table,  an 
apparently  recent  acquisition.  At  last,  to  his  joy,  he  was  intro- 
duced to  some  of  the  most  famous — to  Butler,  tall,  dark,  muscu- 
lar, and  frock-coated,  most  erratic  of  etchers,  most  slap-dash  of 
painters ;  to  the  foul-mouthed,  dainty-fingered  Clinch  ;  to  Gur- 
ney,  slim,  youthful,  and  old-faced,  habited  in  tweeds,  the  latest  re- 
cruit, an  earnest  disciple  of  every  master  in  turn,  old  or  new, 
always  in  superlatives  of  eulogy  or  abuse,  and  untaught  by  his 
own  gyrations  to  respect  a  past  adoration  or  to  tone  down  a 
present;  to  Greme,  more  barefacedly  boyish  than  even  Her- 
bert,  a  blonde  youth  credited  by  his  admirers  with  a  charming 
new  blond  vision  of  Nature,  though  the  Philistines  contended 
that  all  he  did  was  to  get  water-color  effects  with  oils  ;  to  Simp- 
son, who  ground  his  own  colors,  and  had  mysterious  glazes  and 
varnishes,  and  was  consumed  by  an  unshared  anxiety  as  to  the 
permanence  of  his  pictures ;  and — oh,  awful  joy  ! — to  the  great 
Cornpepper,  the  most  brilliant  and  the  youngest  of  them  all,  a 
squat,  juvenile  figure,  with  a  supercilious  eye-glass  in  the  right 


THE    PICTURE-MAKERS  199 

eye,  a  beak-like  nose,  and  a  habit  of  rasping  the  middle  of  his 
seat  with  his  hands,  like  an  owl  on  a  perch.  Matt  was  dying 
to  talk  to  them — and  especially  to  Cornpepper — of  their  art ;  as 
to  men  who  had  already  done  something  in  the  world  through 
which  they  moved,  burdened  with  aspirations  and  haloed  with 
dreams.  But  the  talk  would  not  veer  round  to  painting,  and 
the  evening  was  entirely  devoted  to  a  general  game  of  shell- 
out  with  halfpenny  points.  Matt  was  drawn  into  taking  a  cue, 
and  lost  one  and  threepence  halfpenny  in  the  first  game,  his 
inexperience  being  aggravated  by  Herbert's  whispered  caution 
not  to  cut  the  cloth.  However,  his  skilled  eye  and  hand,  prac- 
tised with  gun  and  brush,  soon  told,  and  he  won  his  money  back 
in  the  second,  much  to  his  relief,  for  his  funds  were  running 
away  at  an  appalling  rate.  The  strenuous  leaders  of  the  new- 
est art  movement  relaxed  over  the  green  table,  highly  hilarious 
as  the  white  ball  ran  among  the  red  balls  like  a  sheep-dog, 
to  drive  them  into  the  pockets,  and  stamping  and  contorting 
themselves  in  mock  applause  after  a  failure  to  score. 

"  That's  a  fluke !"  Herbert  would  say  when  the  failure  was 
his,  and  the  jest  became  a  catchword  provocative  of  perpetual 
cachinnation. 

There  were  so  many  hands  in  the  game  that  Matt  had  plenty 
of  time  for  occasional  remarks  between  his  turns,  but  nobody 
would  speak  of  art  except  a  venerable  graybeard  named  Brink- 
side,  who  talked  to  him  enthusiastically  of  the  Azure  Art 
campaign.  He  told  him  of  the  heroism  of  its  leaders :  of  how 
Cornpepper  had  lived  on  dates  and  water  while  doing  black- 
and-white  illustrations  for  the  Christian  Home,  salvation  sub- 
jects at  starvation  prices ;  of  how  the  even  sturdier  Butler  had 
slept  in  a  stable-loft,  refusing  to  compromise  with  his  genius  or 
to  modify  the  great  dabs  of  paint  that  the  world  mistook  for 
daubs.  In  answer  to  Matt's  inquiries,  the  old  man  explained 
to  him  how  Cornpepper  painted  his  night  scenes,  by  putting 
down  at  fever  heat  in  the  morning  some  beautiful  effect  noted 
and  absorbed  the  night  before.  In  the  evening  Cornpepper 
would  return  to  the  spot,  Brinkside  said ;  but  if,  despite  all  his 
waiting,  he  could  not  see  the  same  effect,  he  would  wilfully  for- 
get the  second  impression,  and  return  again  and  again  till  the 


200  THE    MASTER 

first  conditions  were  repeated.  Matt,  relieved  to  find  that 
Cornpepper's  method  was  similar  to  his  own,  and  that  genius 
had  no  esoteric  prerogatives  of  method,  pointed  out  that  in 
Nature's  infinite  permutations  an  effect  never  recurred  exactly 
as  before,  and  that,  therefore,  he,  for  his  part,  contented  himself 
with  storing  up  in  his  mind  the  main  values  and  color-planes, 
relying  on  deduction  for  the  minutiae.  But,  of  course,  it  all 
depended  on  holding  the  total  effect,  the  original  sensation, 
vividly  in  the  memory.  On  leaving  he  thanked  Brinkside 
with  touching  humility  for  the  instructive  interest  of  his  con- 
versation. 

"  Funny  to  find  an  old  man  in  a  new  movement,"  he  observed, 
suddenly,  to  Herbert,  in  their  homeward  hansom. 

"  Why  not  ?  Old  men  often  creep  in.  It's  their  last  chance. 
But  if  it's  Brinkside  you're  thinking  of,  he's  not  an  artist  at  all. 
He's  an  artists'  colorman,  who  supplied  'em  with  their  materials 
on  tick  before  they  caught  on.  Brinkside's  like  a  dress-maker 
I  used  to  know  at  Brighton,  who  financed  lovely  woman  till  she 
married  wealthy  flats.  He  foresaw  they  would  get  on,  and,  by 
Jove,  they  are  blazing  away  like  a  house  on  fire,  or,  perhaps  I 
ought  to  say,  like  a  chimney  on  fire." 

"  Then  the  opposition  to  the  Academy  is  flourishing  !"  cried 
Matt,  joyfully.  His  vague,  youthful  sympathy  with  all  that 
was  fresh  and  young  was  strengthened  and  made  concrete  by 
the  revelations  of  struggle  and  starvation  in  the  lives  of  those 
that  had  preceded  him,  martyred  for  the  faith  that  was  in  them. 

"  Yes,  it  is  flourishing,"  said  Herbert ;  "  so  much  so  that  in 
ten  years'  time  most  of  'em  will  be  Academicians  or  Associates. 
If  I  were  the  governor  I'd  buy  'em  up  now ;  but  he's  got  no  in- 
sight." 

"  Oh,"  said  Matt,  disappointed.  "  Do  you  mean  the  Academy 
will  win,  after  all  ?" 

"  Six  of  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  t'other.  They'll  be  half 
accepted  and  half  toned  down.  Already  Greme  and  Butler  are 
married — and  that's  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Lucky  beggars  ! 
supplied  with  enthusiasm  in  their  youth,  and  comfort  in  their 
old  age.  I  wish  I  was  young  myself." 

"  What  nonsense !" 


THE    PICTURE-MAKERS  201 

"I  never  was  young,"  said  Herbert,  shaking  his  head.  "I 
always  saw  through  everything.  Heigho !  Give  us  a  light 
from  your  cigar.  I've  sighed  mine  out." 

"  I  suppose  they're  very  grateful  to  Brinkside,"  said  Matt, 
when  the  fire  of  Herbert's  cigar  was  rekindled. 

"  They  play  billiards  with  him,  but  I  don't  suppose  they've 
squared  up  yet." 

"  But  they're  making  money  now,"  urged  Matt,  horrified. 
Years  of  bitter  slavery  to  domestic  liabilities  had  unfitted  him 
to  understand  this  laxity  of  financial  fibre. 

"  And  then  ?     Why  be  rash  ?     One  can't  foresee  the  future." 

Before  the  magnificence  of  this  rebuke  Matt  shrank  abashed ; 
he  had  a  sneaking  twinge  of  sharne  and  concern  for  his  own 
homely  honesty,  as  for  something  inauspiciously  inartistic. 

"  Talking  of  money,"  went  on  Herbert,  "  I'm  devilish  hard  up 
myself  for  a  day  or  two  —  bills  to  meet  at  once,  and  my  al- 
lowance don't  come  due  for  a  few  days.  You  couldn't  advance 
me  a  trifle,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  could,"  said  Matt,  eagerly. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  let  me  have  a  pony  ?" 

"  A  pony  ?"  repeated  Matt,  mystified. 

"  Twenty-rfive  pounds.  Don't  do  it  if  it  will  at  all  inconven- 
ience you." 

Matt  was  glad  that  it  was  too  dark  for  Herbert  to  read  his 
face.  The  sum  was  by  far  the  greater  portion  of  his  worldly 
possessions.  But  he  did  not  hesitate.  Herbert  would  refund 
it  in  a  day  or  two. 

"  I  will  bring  it  to  the  studio  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

"  That's  a  good  chap,"  said  Herbert.  "  By-the-way,  we've 
got  to  go  to  Cornpepper's  studio  next  Sunday  week." 

"  Really  ?"  cried  Matt,  in  delighted  excitement. 

"  Yes ;  he  told  me  he  didn't  like  to  ask  you  direct,  because 
you  looked  so  serious  and  strait-laced." 

"  Oh  !"  protested  Matt,  with  a  vague  sense  of  insult. 

"  Well,  you  do,  there's  no  denying  it.  Remember  how  you 
preached  to  me  about  the  governor  the  first  time  you  saw  me. 
Perhaps  you'll  go  lecturing  Cornpcpper  because  he  economizes 
by  domesticating  his  model  when  he  has  a  big  picture  on  the 


202  THE    MASTER 

easel.  Personally,  I  like  Cornpepper;  he  is  the  only  fellow 
who  has  the  courage  of  his  want  of  principles  in  this  white- 
washed sepulchre  of  a  country.  But  be  careful  that  you  don't 
talk  to  him  as  you  did  to  Rapper,  for  he  lives  up  to  his  name. 
He  is  awfully  peppery  when  you  tread  on  his  corns,  though  he 
has  no  objection  to  stamping  on  yours.  Not  that  I  believe 
there's  any  real  malice  in  him,  but  they  say  his  master  at  the 
Beaux-Arts  was  a  very  quarrelsome  fellow,  and  my  opinion  is 
that  he  models  himself  on  him,  and  thinks  that  to  quarrel  with 
everybody  is  to  be  a  great  artist." 

"  Oh,  but  don't  you  think  he  will  be  a  great  artist  ?"  said  Matt. 

"  He  is  a  great  artist,  but  he  won't  be,"  said  Herbert.  "He'll 
be  an  R.A.  By  Jove !  we  nearly  ran  over  that  Guardsman. 
Mary  Ann  has  been  standing  him  too  many  drinks.  Do  you 
know  the  price  of  a  Guardsman,  Matt  ?" 

"  The  price  ?" 

"  Yes ;  a  nurse-maid  who  wishes  to  be  seen  walking  out  with 
a  swagger  soldier  has  to  .give  him  half  a  crown  and  his  beer." 

Herbert  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  showing  off  to  Matt  his 
knowledge  of  the  inner  working  of  the  great  social  machine. 
Madame,  passing  her  white  hand  lovingly  over  her  boy's  hair, 
had  no  idea  of  the  serpentine  wisdom  garnered  in  the  brain 
beneath. 

At  the  Marble  Arch,  Matt,  carefully  bearing  the  photograph 
of  Rapper's  "  Library,"  got  out  of  the  hansom  to  exchange  to  a 
'bus  which  passed,  near  his  street.  He  offered  to  pay  his  share 
of  the  hansom,  but  Herbert  waved  the  silver  aside  with  princely 
magnificence. 


CHAPTER  V 

A     SYMPOSIUM 


MATT'S  desire  to  hear  the  brotherhood  of  the  brush  on  Art 
was  gratified  ad  nauseam  at  Cornpepper's,  for  a  batch  of  artists 
of  all  ages,  together  with  a  couple  of  journalists,  assembled  in 
the  big,  bare,  picture-littered  studio  to  smoke  their  own  pipes 


A    SYMPOSIUM  203 

and  to  say  "  when  "  to  the  neat-handed  model  who  dispensed 
the  host's  whiskey.  Some  declared  they  wanted  it  neat,  to  take 
off  the  effects  of  a  grewsome  tale  with  which  Rapper  had 
started  the  evening.  It  was  about  the  time  when  he  had  stud- 
ied art  in  Berlin  and  attended  Ringschneider's  anatomy  class. 
("  I'm  not  much  of  an  artist,  but  I  do  know  anatomy,"  he  inter- 
polated.) One  day  when  the  corpse  upon  which  the  professor 
was  about  to  demonstrate  was  uncovered,  the  students  recog- 
nized, to  their  horror,  a  favorite  fellow -pupil,  who  had  been 
away  for  a  few  days.  He  had  been  taken  ill  in  his  garret,  con- 
veyed to  the  hospital,  and,  being  alone  in  the  world,  had  been 
sold  to  the  lecture-room.  The  startled  class  immediately  sub- 
scribed for  another  corpse,  and  buried  the  unfortunate  boy  with 
due  honors.  Greme  tried  to  counteract  this  tale  by  another  one 
about  a  model,  an  old  fellow  named  William  Tell,  who,  after 
vainly  applying  at  the  Slade  and  Lambeth  schools  for  work,  had 
been  taken  up  by  the  St.  George's  Sketching  Club  for  the  sake 
of  his  picturesque  corded  breeches.  When,  at  the  end  of  the 
two  hours'  spell,  the  men  were  criticising  one  another's  work, 
one  said  to  another,  "There  doesn't  seem  any  leg  under  those 
breeches."  Overhearing  which,  William  Tell  fell  to  indignantly 
unbuttoning  his  gaiters. 

The  arrival  of  a  twinkling-eyed  caricaturist,  joyously  greeted 
by  all  as  "Jimmy,"  dispelled  the  last  flavors  of  the  mortuary. 
"Aren't  you  in  China?"  everybody  asked.  Jimmy  explained 
he  had  thrown  up  the  commission,  but  was  off  to  the  West  In- 
dies next  month,  though  he  expected  to  find  himself  in  Paris 
instead.  He  was  a  genius,  with  an  infinite  capacity  for  taking 
pains  and  making  friends,  and,  being  forced  to  rise  in  the  small 
hours  to  get  through  his  work  before  the  countless  callers  ar- 
rived to  distract  him,  was  popularly  supposed  to  be  an  idle 
scapegrace,  who  produced  sketches  as  rapidly  and  copiously  as 
the  conjurer  produces  oranges  from  his  coat -sleeve.  Matt's 
breath  was  almost  taken  away  in  a  rush  of  reverence  and  rapt- 
ure at  the  unexpected  privilege  of  seeing  him ;  for,  despite  his 
own  craving  for  the  Sublime  and  the  Beautiful,  Jimmy  Raven's 
sketches  of  low  London  life  had  for  him  a  magnetic  appeal 
whose  strength  surprised  himself.  Sometimes  he  fancied  it 


204  THE    MASTER 

was  the  humor  and  the  fun  that  held  him,  as  being  the  quali- 
ties in  which  he  himself  was  most  deficient ;  sometimes  it  flashed 
upon  him  obscurely — as  in  a  light  thrown  through  a  fog — that 
Jimmy  Raven  was  teaching  him  to  see  the  spectacle  of  life  more 
deeply  and  truthfully  through  the  medium  of  his  humorous  vis- 
ion;  at  such  instants  he  almost  thought  one  of  Jimmy's  loafers 
worth  a  whole  Academy  of  poetic  myths,  but  he  suppressed  the 
suspicion  as  absurd  and  perturbing  to  his  own  ideals  and  vision, 
telling  himself  it  was  only  the  truth  and  subtlety  of  the  draughts- 
manship that  he  admired.  He  listened  to  him  now  as  eagerly 
and  deferentially  as  to  Cornpepper,  his  eyes  fixed  mainly  on 
these  two  famous  faces,  as  if  to  seize  the  secret  of  their  gifts  in 
some  contour  of  nose  or  chin;  but  he  had  ample  curiosity  and 
respect  to  spend  even  on  the  other  men,  though  below  all  his 
real  modesty  and  diffidence  was  a  curious  bed-rock  of  self-con- 
scious strength,  as  of  a  talent  that  might  hope  one  day  to  be 
recognized  even  of  these. 

But  there  was  little  art-talk  to  be  got  out  of  Jimmy.  Hav- 
ing likewise  said  "  when,"  he  launched  into  an  account  of  an 
East  End  girl  he  had  sketched  that  morning  in  the  Park,  and 
quoted  her  idea  of  a  coster  gentleman.  "  My  brother's  a  toff," 
he  had  overheard  her  boasting.  "  He  wears  three  rows  of  but- 
tons down  his  trousers,  and  sixteen  wentilation  'oles  in  'is  'at." 
"  And  who  do  you  think  I  saw  in  the  Park  ?"  he  went  on. 
"Egyptian  Bill." 

"  No  ?"  cried  various  voices.     "  What  was  he  preaching  ?" 

"Buddhism,"  said  Jimmy.  "He's  sitting  to  Winkelman, 
that  old  chap  who  became  a  Buddhist  when  he  was  painting 
those  Eastern  things  the  critics  made  such  a  fuss  about." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  the  expense  of  the  Mohammedan  model, 
who  always  suited  his  religion  to  his  employer's. 

"  When  I  did  him,"  said  Jimmy,  "I  pretended  to  be  a  Jew, 
and  it  was  great  fun  after  he  became  a  Jew  to  tell  him  I  was  a 
Christian.  ...  I  don't  know  which  was  the  biggest  lie,"  he  add- 
ed, with  his  droll  twinkle. 

"  Did  you  hear  about  the  Hindoo  who  went  to  see  Winkel- 
man's  things  at  Dowdeswell's  ?"  said  Butler.  "  He  spat  out. 
You  see,  he  knew  the  real  thing."  He  smiled  with  grim  satis- 


A    SYMPOSIUM  205 

faction,  for  the  things  were  licked  and  stippled  into  a  meretri 
cious  poetry,  and  his  own  bold  blobs  of  Oriental  color  had  been 
laughed  at. 

"Don't  you  wish  they  supplied  spittoons  at  the  Academy?" 
asked  Jimmy. 

It  was  the  red  rag.  For  the  next  ten  minutes  the  absurdi- 
ties of  the  Academy  and  the  transcendent  merits  of  the  Salon 
(which  most  of  them  had  run  over  to  Paris  to  see)  occupied  the 
tapis,  and  then  a  spectacled  Scotchman,  who  answered  to  the 
name  of  Mack,  dilated  upon  the  decadence  of  the  grisette  and 
the  degeneracy  of  the  students'  orgies. 

"  Ah,  but  still  Paris  stands  for  the  joy  of  life,"  said  Corn- 
pepper.  "  They  are  not  ashamed  of  living." 

"  They  ought  to  be,"  said  Matt,  and  the  company  laughed,  as 
at  a  good  joke. 

"  Our  young  friend  thinks  the  artist  should  be  moral,"  said 
Herbert,  paternally. 

"  He'll  say  art  should  be  moral  next,"  said  Mack. 

"  It  isn't  immoral,  is  it  ?"  said  Matt,  feebly.  As  usual,  he 
was  half  fascinated,  half  shocked  by  the  freedom  of  the  ar- 
tistic standpoint,  for  which  his  intellect  was  ready,  but  not  his 
deeper  organization.  He  wondered  again  why  he  was  so  un- 
comfortably constructed,  and  he  envied  these  others  for  whom 
their  art  seemed  to  flow  in  happy  irrelation  to  conduct  and  char- 
acter, or  at  least  to  the  moral  ideals  of  the  bourgeois.  He  mar- 
velled at  them,  too,  not  understanding  how  talents  more  sub- 
conscious than  his  own  could  lie  in  closed  compartments,  as  it 
were,  of  the  artists'  minds,  apparently  unaffected  by  the  experi- 
ences of  their  temporary  owners. 

"  Art's  neither  moral  nor  immoral,"  pronounced  the  little  host, 
magisterially,  as  he  grasped  his  perch  more  tightly,  "  any  more 
than  it's  lunar  or  calendar.  The  artist  thinks  and  feels  in  line 
and  color.  He  sees  Nature  green  or  gray,  according  to  his  tem- 
perament. There  are  as  many  views  from  Richmond  Hill  as 
there  are  artists.  If  two  views  are  alike,  one  is  a  plagiarism. 
Nature  will  never  be  exhausted,  for  every  man  sees  her  differ- 
ently." 

"  And  so  long  as  he  doesn't  see  her  double — "  put  in  Jimmy. 


206  THE    MASTER 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Cornpepper.  "  So  long  as  be  isn't  too  drunk 
to  keep  his  brush  steady,  we  ask  no  more  of  him.  In  fact,  it's 
always  best  to  be  in  love  with  your  sitter  —  that's  what  gives 
chic:1 

"  Rot !"  said  a  granite-faced,  white-bearded  septuagenarian 
who  had  been  smoking  in  silent  amusement.  "  Chic  comes 
merely  from  painting  with  brushes  too  large  for  the  work." 

"  Avast  there,  Rocks  !"  said  Jimmy.  "  We  don't  want  any 
of  your  revolutionary  notions  here.  What  would  you  say  if  we 
denounced  jammy  shadows  at  the  Academy  dinner  ?" 

"  Avast  yourself  !"  cried  Cornpepper,  rather  angrily.  "  This 
is  Liberty  Hall.  I  won't  be  classed  with  the  new  school,  or  with 
any  school."  Cornpepper's  success  had  already  made  him  feel 
the  dead-weight  of  an  extravagant  school  with  which  one  is 
confounded.  "  Because  I  exhibit  with  you  chaps,  people  credit 
me  with  all  your  views.  You  might  as  well  say  I  agree  with 
the  president  because  I'm  on  the  line  in  the  Academy." 

"  Have  you  got  a  picture  in  the  Academy,  Teddy  ?  I  didn't 
notice  it,"  said  Wilfred  Smith,  the  journalist,  thereby  express- 
ing what  was  in  Matt's  mind  too. 

"  There  you  are  !"  laughed  Rocks.  "  When  you  come  among 
us  you're  lost.  It's  only  by  our  rejecting  you  that  we  make 
you  famous.  When  you  exhibit  by  yourselves,  you  stand  out." 

"  I  allow  Rocks  to  talk,"  said  little  Cornpepper,  with  a  good- 
natured  smile.  "  He  was  the  first  to  detect  my  talent,  and  I 
am  really  sorry  to  be  the  last  to  detect  his.  I  think  his  big 
nudes  are  shocking.  He  and  Tarmigan  are  a  pair.  Where  is 
the  point  of  painting  heathen  mythology  ?" 

"I  only  paint  the  nude  because  I  can't  paint  clothes,"  said 
Rocks,  smiling.  "  You  are  all  so  versatile  nowadays." 

"  Ah,  Teddy  '11  come  round  to  the  classic,  too,  one  day,"  said 
Butler,  with  a  weary  expression  on  his  strong,  stern  face.  "  You 
should  have  seen  his  joy  when  he  got  the  invitation  for  varnish- 
ing-day." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  cried  little  Cornpepper,  glaring 
through  his  eye-glass  and  humping  himself  into  a  more  owl- 
like  curve.  "  I  didn't  even  accept  the  invitation.  I  wasn't 
going  to  help  the  R.A.'s  to  correct  their  draughtsmanship-" 


A    SYMPOSIUM  207 

The  glare  relaxed  under  his  pleasure  at  the  laugh,  and  he  add- 
ed, more  quietly:  "  Do  let  us  drop  shop,  for  Heaven's  sake.  I'm 
not  one  of  a  school — I'm  myself.  And  I  don't  say  salvation 
lies  with  any  sect.  Give  me  style ;  that's  all  I  ask  for." 

"Will  you  have  it  neat?"  murmured  Jimmy. 

"  Style,  not  school,"  pursued  Cornpepper,  pleased  with  the 
phrase.  "  Take  literature !  There's  style  in  Boccaccio,  and 
style  in  Flaubert,  and  style  in  Wycherley.  Even  a  moral  work 
may  pass  if  it  has  style — Pope's  satires,  for  instance.  So,  too, 
in  painting.  I  don't  find  style  in  Bouguereau  or  Fred  Walker, 
in  Rocks  or  Tarmigan,  who  are  only  fit  for  chromos,  but  I  do 
find  it  in  Mantegna,  in  Fortuny,  in  Degas,  in — " 

"  Good-bye  !"  said  Jimmy,  getting  up.  "  I  have  to  meet  my 
wife  at  ten." 

"  Oh,  there's  lots  of  time,"  said  Cornpepper.  "  Carrie,  pass 
Jimmy  the  whiskey.  Sit  down,  there's  a  good  chap."  And 
Jimmy  sat  down. 

"  Style's  going  to  be  a  square  touch  and  a  feathery  outline," 
said  Greme,  sarcastically. 

"  Style's  merely  a  decorative  appearance,"  said  Mack.  "  A 
picture  is  primarily  a  wall-decoration ;  it  has  no  right  to  exist 
for  itself." 

"  Hear,  hear !"  cried  Herbert.  Mack  lived  up  to  his  princi- 
ples, for  he  always  saw  Nature  as  a  pretty  pattern. 

"  Style's  an  accident ;  look  at  the  blottesque  effects  you  get 
in  water-color,"  said  Rocks. 

"  The  last  and  greatest  art — the  art  to  blot,"  quoted  Levison, 
'-he  second  journalist,  who  also  posed  as  a  war-artist  in  times  of 
peace. 

"  When  I  was  in  Antwerp,  under  Villat,"  said  Rapper — "  a 
fierce  little  man  he  was — he  used  to  come  and  correct  our  can- 
vases with  big  blotches  of  burnt  sienna  and  lamp-black  on  the 
last  day  of  a  model.  Rocks  would  call  that  a  blottesque  effect. 
Now  I  flatter  myself  /  can  tell  you  what  style  is,  though  I  don't 
profess  to  get  it  myself.  Style  is — " 

"  The  art  of  leaving  in — or  leaving  out — accidents,"  finished 
Rocks.  "  You  see  that  so  well  in  Fortuny's  work." 

"  Jimmy  gets  his  effects  by  leaving  out  all  the  dead  lines  of 


208  THE    MASTER 

his  first  sketch,"  said  Wilfred  Smith,  the  journalist;  "don't 
you,  Jimmy  ?" 

"  So  I'm  told,"  said  Jimmy. 

"  Style  is  the  art  of  leaving  out,"  said  Herbert.  "  They  don't 
leave  out  the  R.A.'s  pictures  in  the  Academy.  Hence  the  ab- 
sence of  style  in  the  show." 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!  Shop  again!"  cried  Cornpepper,  despair- 
ingly. "The  only  chance  of  progress  for  art  is  in  neglecting 
values — not  from  ignorance,  like  the  Germans,  bat  from  inten- 
tion ;  not  viewing  Nature  through  a  bit  of  black  glass,  like  Mil- 
let, or  toning  down  the  violets  of  her  shadows,  but  painting  real 
sunlight." 

"  But  you  can't  really  paint  sunlight,"  put  in  Matt,  timidly. 
"  Paint's  only  mud." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Cornpepper.  "  But  Delacroix  said,  *  Give 
me  mud,  and  I'll  paint  you  the  skin  of  Venus.'  It  depends 
on  what  you  put  round  your  mud." 

"  Or  how  you  put  it  on,"  added  Gurney.  "  The  only  way  is 
to  get  optics  to  help  you,  and  mix  your  primaries  on  the  can- 
vas, not  on  the  palette,  with  a  Bright's  brush. n 

"  I  reckon  you'll  be  breaking  out  in  '  spots '  next,"  laughed 
Rocks.  "  That  Vibriste  nonsense  has  been  the  ruin  of  young 
Dircks.  He  used  to  be  quite  second-rate,  but  since  he  crossed 
the  Channel  he  squeezes  his  tubes  on  to  his  canvas,  and  it's  all 
streaks  like  a  clown's  face." 

"  Paint  is  neither  mud  nor  sunlight,"  interposed  Butler,  au- 
thoritatively. "  It's  paint.  Glory  in  it.  Don't  pretend  it's 
silk  or  wood.  According  to  the  Academy,  the  highest  art  is  to 
conceal  paint." 

"  Shop  again !"  groaned  Cornpepper.  "  We're  an  awfully 
narrow  set,  we  artists — always  girding  at  each  other's  methods, 
though  we're  all  trying  for  the  same  thing."  Then,  recalled 
by  Butler's  frowning  face  to  a  sense  of  his  position  as  chef 
d'ecole,  a  position  he  was  not  yet  prepared  to  abdicate,  he  add- 
ed, in  more  conciliatory  accents :  "  All  I  o.bject  to  in  the  Acad- 
emy is  its  existence.  No  body  of  men  has  the  right  to  say  to 
the  public,  L'art,  Jest  moi.  I  don't  for  a  moment  claim  our 
work's  better  than  theirs,  only — " 


A    SYMPOSIUM  209 

"That  theirs  is  worse  than  ours,"  suggested  Jimmy. 

"  It's  all  very  well,  but  their  ideal  is  smooth  things,"  persisted 
Butler,  vehemently.  "  Smooth  things  in  paint,  in  life,  and  in 
after-dinner  speeches.  I  should  have  taken  the  Gold  Medal  in 
my  year,  and  been  spared  years  of  grinding  misery,  if  I  had 
scraped  ou.t  the  life  with  a  fish-shell  or  a  razor-blade." 

Matt's  eyes  flashed  sympathetic  admiration  at  him. 

"  Bother  the  Academy  !"  said  Herbert,  hastily.  "  Pass  me 
the  jug." 

"  Schools  of  Arts  are  barracks,"  went  on  Butler,  his  resentment 
unexhausted.  "  They  would  fuse  all  talents  in  one  mould,  and 
put  together  what  God  has  put  asunder.  You  may  teach  craft ; 
but  Art — never  !" 

"The  idea  of  setting  a  subject,  too,"  said  Greme,  who  was 
very  proud  of  his  private  color-vision.  "  They  go  on  a  false 
analogy.  Art  can't  be  got  at  by  a  competitive  examination.  It 
isn't  like  Latin  or  Greek,  or  the  use  of  the  globes ;  it's  the  ex- 
pression of  individual  temperament.  And  it's  always  such  a 
rotten,  stilted  subject  they  set  for  the  Gold  Medal.  I  wonder 
what  it  is  this  year  ?" 

"  Strang's  at  the  Academy,"  said  Rapper.     "  He'll  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  confound  the  Academy !"  said  Herbert,  crossly. 

c<  Something  Biblical,  you  bet  your  boots,"  said  Jimmy.  "  It 
makes  the  fellows  read  the  Bible,  anyhow.  But  I  must  really 
go  and  meet  my  wife." 

"  I  heard  it  was  about  Nebu — "  Greme  began. 

"  Here,  shut  up,  Greme  !"  interrupted  Herbert.  "  Isn't  it  time 
to  sing  songs  ?" 

He  glanced  anxiously  at  his  cousin ;  but  that  enthusiastic 
young  man  was  gazing  at  Butler  with  a  hypnotized  stare,  lost  in 
an  inward  vision  of  the  youthful  rebel  painting  in  his  stable-loft. 

"  It's  time  to  drop  shop,"  responded  Cornpepper,  sharply. 
"  I've  been  trying  to  get  the  talk  off  art  for  the  last  half-hour. 
I  want  to  discuss  whiskey,  woman,  and  song.  What's  the  dif- 
ference who  wins  the  Gold  Medal,  or  even  the  Prix  de  Rome  ? 
That's  the  last  one  ever  hears  of  them." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Rapper ;  "  all  the  professors  at  the  Beaux- 
Arts  took  the  Prix  de  Rome." 

14 


210  THE    MASTER 

"  Did  the  men  with  guts  ?"  inquired  Cornpepper,  scathingly, 
as  he  glared  through  his  monocle  at  his  contradictor.  "Did 
the  biggest  of  all,  Puvis  de  Chavannes  ?  Now,  you  fellows  de- 
fine style,  but  it  never  occurs  to  you  that  it  is  simply  the  perfect 
handling  of  your  medium,  whatever  it  be.  What  makes  the 
decorations  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes  so  great?  MereJy  that  the 
gray,  cool  color  scheme  just  suits  the  stone  of  the  Pantheon. 
The  decorations  of  Laurens  would  be  finer  as  easel  pictures. 
They  make  the  building  look  smaller.  Those  of  Chavannes 
ennoble  it,  give  the  sense  of  space  and  atmosphere.  The  me- 
dium forced  to  yield  its  best — that  is  style.  There  is  one  glory 
of  silver-point  and  another  of  chalk  or  pencil.  Fritz's  pictures 
are  damn  bad  because  they  are  in  the  wrong  medium.  To  pre- 
serve a  chronicle  of  the  time  is  the  function  of  black  and  white. 
Only  by—" 

"I  really  must  go,"  said  Jimmy,  starting  up  again.  "As  a 
black-and-white  man  I  preserve  a  chronicle  of  the  time,  and  it 
tells  me  it's  a  quarter-past  ten,  and  I  have  got  to  meet  my  wife 
at  the  Monico  at  ten." 

"  Oh,  rot !  There's  lots  of  time."  And  a  dozen  hands 
pushed  Jimmy  into  his  seat,  and  Carrie  brought  him  more 
whiskey. 

"  I  never  could  see  how  you  square  that  with  your  princi- 
ples, Cornpepper,"  argued  Gurney,  the  gyrator,  with  a  thought- 
ful wrinkle  of  his  elderly  face.  "  Every  painter's  got  to  do  his 
own  time.  Posterity  won't  want  Erie-Smith's  Greek  gods  with 
ginger-bread  flesh,  and  sickly  sea-nymphs  with  wooden  limbs. 
A  cod's  head,  well  painted,  is  better  than  a  Madonna."  Erie- 
Smith  had  been  his  last  idolized  Master  before  he  came  to  wor- 
ship at  the  shrine  of  Cornpepper. 

"  But  there's  imagination  in  Erie-Smith,"  Matt  protested,  def- 
erentially. 

Gurney  snorted  out  quintessence  of  contempt  in  an  indeco- 
rous monosyllable.  " 'Bus- drivers  and  ballet-girls  —  that's  the 
modern  artist's  duty  to  posterity.  And  his  duty  to  his  contem- 
poraries is  to  find  the  poetry  and  beauty  around  'em  and  teach 
'em  to  see  it.  That's  why  your  *  Chimney  on  Fire  in  Fitzroy 
Street '  is  the  picture  of  the  year." 


A    SYMPOSIUM  211 

uOli  yes!"  Matt  burst  forth,  in  the  idiom  of  Granger's,  "  it's 
jolly  stunning  !" 

Cornpepper  made  a  moue  of  disgust.  "  Are  we  never  going 
to  get  away  from  shop  ?"  he  asked,  desperately.  "  What  has 
my  chimney  to  do  with  the  chronicles  of  the  time  ?  You  chaps 
have  always  misunderstood  me.  You  all  go  by  what  O'Brien 
writes  of  me  in  the  Saturday  /Spectator.  I  do  wish  he  wouldn't 
interpret  me.  I  wish  he'd  leave  me  alone.  It's  bad  enough  to 
have  the  papers  writing  about  one's  sayings  and  doings,  it's  bad 
enough  to  be  afraid  of  your  own  friends  when,  like  Levison  and 
Wilfred  Smith,  they  happen  to  be  journalists ;  but  to  be  inter- 
preted in  leading  articles  by  O'Brien  is  the  crowning  blow. 
What  right  has  he  to  meddle  with  art  ?  Why  the  hell  doesn't 
he  stick  to  his  last?  If  I  painted  that  chimney — " 

"Instead  of  sweeping  it,"  murmured  Jimmy.  "Do  let  me 
go  and  meet  my  wife." 

« — it  was  because  I  saw  an  opportunity  for  style,  and  for  giv- 
ing an  epic  sense  of  London,"  little  Cornpepper  went  on,  fixing 
Jimmy  with  his  basilisk  glare.  "  I  don't  care  a  twopenny  damn 
about  posterity  or  my  contemporaries.  I  paint  as  I  do  every- 
thing else — to  please  myself." 

"  We  know  you  don't  please  anybody  else,"  retorted  Jimmy. 
"  I  must  be  off." 

"  Well,  black  and  white  is  going  to  be  the  art  of  the  future, 
anyhow,"  said  Butler.  "  Art  is  dead  in  England.  Nobody  dis- 
putes that." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Cornpepper.  "  Painting's  a  lost  art. 
Not  one  of  us  can  touch  the  old  men — Watts,  Millais,  Whistler. 
No ;  we  none  of  us  can  paint." 

"  But  English  art  '11  revive  through  black  and  white,"  Butler 
maintained.  "  It's  the  art  of  the  people.  I  wish  I  had  dis- 
covered that  in  the  days  when  I  refused  to  do  it." 

"  Black  and  white  is  not  the  art  of  the  future,  but  the  future 
bf  Art,"  said  Herbert.  "  Nothing  else  pays." 

"It's  surer  than  anything  else,"  admitted  Gurney.  "And  a 
paper  gives  you  a  far  wider  appeal  than  a  gallery.  It's  the 
only  way  of  elevating  the  people."  His  eye  lit  up.  He  was 
meditating  a  new  departure. 


212  THE    MASTER 

Matt  pricked  up  his  ears ;  Herbert  had  not  yet  repaid  him 
the  twenty-five  pounds,  borrowed  for  a  day  or  two,  and  in  any 
case  he  felt  he  must  soon  be  earning  money.  In  the  stagnation 
of  the  picture  market,  of  which  he  heard  on  every  side,  and  on 
which  the  talk  fell  now,  it  was  at  once  comforting  and  distress- 
ing to  hear  of  another  source  of  income.  Black  and  white  had 
scarcely  entered  into  his  thoughts  before ;  he  looked  upon  it  as 
a  degraded  commercial  form  of  art — a  thing  manufactured  for 
the  moment  in  obedience  to  editorial  instructions.  Perhaps  if 
times  had  changed,  if  editors  allowed  the  artist  to  express  him- 
self through  their  pages,  one  might  think  of  it ;  otherwise  it 
was  too  horrible.  Art  to  order  !  The  spirit  whose  essence  was 
freedom  chained  to  a  cash-box  !  It  were  as  well — and  honester 
— to  be  a  cobbler  like  William  Gregson.  He  shuddered  vio- 
lently, remembering  his  sufferings  as  a  portrait-painter  in  Nova 
Scotia,  and  very  resolved  to  starve  sooner  than  repeat  those  de- 
grading efforts  to  please  customers. 

"  I  don't  talk  about  it,"  said  Cornpepper,  after  ten  minutes  of 
general  tragic  anecdotage,  from  which  lie  gathered  there  was 
quite  a  rush  into  black  and  white — a  subject  concerning  which 
both  the  journalists  seemed  fully  posted.  "  I  just  go  on  work- 
ing ;  I  don't  care  whether  I  sell  or  not.  The  dealers  I  hate  and 
despise ;  they  have  no  measure  of  Art  but  what  it  '11  fetch.  I 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  The  world  will  come  to  me 
sooner  or  later.  You  never  hear  me  grumbling  about  the  market." 

"  The  more  I  hear  of  the  troubles  of  you  chaps,"  said  Rapper, 
"  the  more  surprised  I  am  that  I,  with  nothing  like  your  talents, 
should  be  the  one  to  get  the  commissions,  as  if  I  had  any  need 
of  the  shiners.  I'm  going  to  Birmingham  again  next  week  to 
do  a  municipal  duffer  in  his  robes.  Even  when  I  studied  art  in 
Brussels — " 

"  The  real  reason  we're  coming  to  black  and  white,"  broke  in 
the  spectacled  Scotchman,  "is  that  we're  all  born  color-blind. 
The  dulness  of  our  surroundings,  the  long  centuries  of  homes 
without  decorations,  with  unbeautiful  furniture  and  crockery, 
have  told,  and  now — " 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter.  "  Stow  that,  Mack !"  cried 
Rapper. 


A    SYMPOSIUM  213 

"  You  can't  keep  Mack  off  shop,"  cried  Cornpepper.  "  I'm 
sick  of  this  talk  about  principles.  Art,  life,  nature,  realism, 
the  decorative  !  The  decorative  indeed  !  For  what  is  Art  ?  It 
isn't  studio-pictures,  it's — " 

"  It's  half-past  ten,"  groaned  Jimmy,  trying  to  shake  off  the 
detaining  hands  of  his  friends.  "  Where's  Sandstone  ?  Why 
hasn't  he  turned  up  ?  He  goes  my  way." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Cornpepper.  "  He's  been  quarrelling 
with  the  man  who  published  his  lithographs.  What  a  quarrel- 
some beggar  he  is !  I  believe  he's  quarrelled  with  Clinch  now. 
By-the-way,  where  is  Clinch  ?  He  said  he  was  coming." 

Everybody  supposed  simultaneously  that  Clinch  was  drunk, 
and  their  light-hearted  acceptance  of  the  idea  jarred  upon  Matt, 
who  again  became  conscious  of  a  curious  aloofness  from  the 
company,  from  which  he  seemed  as  cut  off  on  the  moral  side 
as  from  the  despised  bourgeoisie  on  the  artistic  side.  What  a 
strange  isolation !  The  thought  made  him  feel  lonely,  and 
then — by  reaction — strong. 

Even  Rocks  laughed.  "  I  prefer  Philip  drunk  to  Philip 
sober,"  he  said.  "  It's  the  only  time  he  uses  drawing  -  room 
English." 

"  How  can  I  sup  with  my  wife  at  the  Monico  ?"  persisted 
Jimmy,  plaintively.  "The  beastly  place  closes  at  eleven  on 
Sundays." 

"  Oh,  the  English  Sunday  !"  said  Herbert.  "  How  can  you 
have  art  and  the  English  Sunday  together?  You  talk  of  the 
art  of  the  people,  Curtis.  The  real  national  art  of  England  is 
oratorio,  and  Elijah  may  not  appear  on  the  stage  except  in  even- 
ing dress." 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  the  middle  classes,"  groaned  Corn- 
pepper.  "  They  will  never  be  saved  till  Boccaccio  is  read  aloud 
in  every  parlor  on  Sunday  afternoons." 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,  Teddy,"  said  Butler.  "  You'll  be  moral 
some  day." 

"  I  can  get  my  stockings  darned  without  marrying,"  retorted 
Cornpepper,  with  an  irritating  laugh,  and  Butler  reddened  an- 
grily. He  had  married  a  slipshod,  artistic  creature  who  neg- 
lected his  shirt-buttons,  and  the  thrust  rankled. 


214  THE    MASTER 

"  My  wife's  waiting  at  the  Monico,"  complained  Jimmy,  in  a 
droll  sing-song. 

"  Oh,  bother !  Carrie's  just  making  the  coffee,"  replied  the 
host. 

"  I  won't  have  coffee,"  said  Jimmy  ;  "  I  never  mix  drinks." 

The  coffee  came  round,  and  with  it  sandwiches,  and  broke  up 
the  talk  into  duets  and  trios.  Cornpepper  planned  a  house- 
boat party  for  the  summer  to  pick  up  nautical  models  and  paint 
the  river.  Matt's  envious  consciousness  that  he  was  too  poor 
and  too  obscure  to  share  in  these  delightful  artistic  experi- 
ences gave  him  a  new  and  more  disagreeable  sense  of  aloof- 
ness. Then  the  proceedings  became  musical  and  remained  so 
till  the  next  morning,  their  refusal  to  depart  before  the  advent 
of  which  the  guests  melodiously  declared. 

As  the  party  was  breaking  up,  Cornpepper  cried :  "  Oh,  I 
was  nearly  forgetting." 

"  What  ?"  said  Jimmy.     "  To  offer  a  prayer  ?" 

"  No,  to  take  up  a  collection,"  retorted  Cornpepper,  his 
eye-glass  gleaming  with  joy  of  the  mot.  "  Lily's  broken  her 
leg." 

"  Our  Lily  ?"  asked  Greme.  "  But  she  doesn't  sit  now — 
she's  on  the  stage." 

"  I  know ;  she's  dislocated  her  ankle,  and  can't  dance." 

"  She  never  could  dance,"  observed  Herbert.  "  How  ever 
did  she  get  an  engagement  ?" 

"  Browney  put  her  into  his  types  of  English  beauty,"  replied 
Cornpepper.  "But  she's  a  good  girl  all  the  same,  and  she 
hasn't  got  any  money.  I'll  lead  off  with  five  bob." 

In  a  few  minutes  two  guineas  were  collected,  Matt  giving 
half  a  crown,  which  he  could  ill  spare.  As  the  men  left,  Corn- 
pepper  stood  at  the  door  exchanging  a  confidential  word  with 
each.  "  By  Jove,  you  didn't  say  a  word  during  the  whole  dis- 
cussion, Mossop,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands  with  a  brown- 
bearded,  middle-aged  Scotchman,  whose  cranium  bulged  curi- 
ously at  the  side. 

Mossop  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  looked  medita- 
tively at  the  stem.  "  If  art  could  be  talked,  it  wouldn't  want 
to  be  painted,"  he  said,  gravely.  "  Good-night." 


A    SYMPOSIUM  215 

"Good -night,  old  chap.  Ah,  good- night,  Wilfred!"  said 
Cornpepper  to  the  journalist.  "  Understand,  this  evening  is 
private.  I  don't  object  to  your  quoting  what  I  or  anybody  else 
said — my  opinions  are  common  property — but,  damn  it,  if  you 
mention  who  were  here  in  any  of  your  papers  you'll  never  cross 
my  door-step  again.  You  don't  mind  my  frankness?  Good- 
night, old  man." 

"Good -night,  Cornpepper,"  said  Herbert.  "I'll  let  the 
governor  know  about  those  things  of  yours,"  he  added,  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  That's  a  good  fellow.  He  won't  regret  taking  me  up. 
Mind  you  mention  I'm  not  unreasonable — I'm  open  to  an  offer. 
I'm  awfully  glad  to  have  made  your  acquaintance.  Good-night, 
old  chap.  Ah,  good-night,  Levison !"  he  said,  shaking  hands 
with  the  other  journalist.  "  Now,  please  do  understand  that 
what  passes  at  my  gatherings  is  strictly  confidential.  If  you 
can  earn  half  a  dollar  by  mentioning  who  were  here — Rocks  is 
rather  a  lion  just  now — I'm  not  the  man  to  stand  in  your  light. 
But  I  won't  have  what  one  says  in  private  reported,  and  that's 
straight.  Good-night,  old  fellow." 

Two  o'clock  boomed  from  a  neighboring  steeple.  "  Good- 
night, Teddy,"  said  Jimmy,  the  last  man  to  go.  He  added, 
lugubriously :  "  I've  still  got  to  meet  my  wife."  Then,  as  he 
caught  sight  of  himself  in  the  hall-rack  mirror,  the  gleam  in 
his  eye  grew  droller.  "  I'm  going  home  in  my  own  hat  and 
coat,"  he  grumbled.  "  I'm  sober." 

It  was  delicious  to  breathe  the  balmy  night  air  after  the 
smoky,  alcoholic  atmosphere  of  the  studio.  Rocks  walked  a 
little  way  with  Herbert  and  Matt  under  the  silent  stars  before 
they  came  upon  a  hansom. 

"  Are  you  also  an  artist  ?"  he  asked  Matt. 

"  I  hope  to  be,"  said  Matt,  gravely,  "  but  it's  awfully  confus- 
ing to  know  what's  right.  They  all  talk  so  cleverly,  and  they 
all  seem  to  be  right."  He  was  still  worried  about  formulae, 
not  having  discovered  that  there  are  only  men. 

Rocks  emitted  a  short  laugh.  "  Don't  you  bother  your  head 
with  theories,  my  boy,"  he  said,  laying  m's  hand  kindly  on 
Matt's  shoulder.  "  You  just  paint.  Every  man  does  what  he 


216  THE    MASTER 

can,  and  runs  down  what  he  can't.  After  all,  Art  is  very  old; 
there  are  no  great  sensational  reforms  left,  like  West's  discard- 
ing the  toga  for  the  clothes  of  the  period.  The  plein  air  school 
is  this  century's  contribution ;  after  that  there  can  only  be  per- 
mutations and  combinations  of  the  old.  What  is  new  in  the 
Azure  Art  Gallery  is  not  good,  and  what  is  good  is  not  new." 

"  C'est  fini  /"  said  Herbert.  "  That's  what  people  always  say 
till  genius  comes  along.  My  belief  is,  going  by  literature  and 
music,  that  painting  hasn't  said  its  last  word." 

"  It  may  come  back  to  its  first,"  admitted  Rocks,  laughing. 
"  Things  go  in  cycles.  At  present  the  last  word  of  Art  is 
azure." 

"  But  there  are  azure  shadows  ?"  said  Matt. 

"  Yes ;  sunshine  on  a  yellow  sand  gives  a  suspicion  of  blue 
and  violet  where  the  yellow  light  is  cut  off.  But  you  ex- 
aggerate it  and  call  that  a  revolution." 

"  Yes,  but  this  intensified  violet,  made  on  your  canvas  out  of 
light  pigments,  does  produce  the  illusion  of  sunlight,"  argued 
Matt.  "  And,  to  my  mind,  it  doesn't  falsify  nature  or  values 
one  bit,  because  in  bright  sunlight  the  eye  really  sees  the 
dazzle,  not  the  values." 

"Perhaps  you  young  men  see  the  new  ultra-shades  at  the 
end  of  the  spectrum,"  said  Rocks,  a  little  annoyed  to  find  Matt 
restive  under  his  patronizing  geniality.  "  Apelles  had  only  four 
colors,  but  his  reputation  has  survived.  It  is  the  craze  for 
novelty  that  makes  these  fads  catch  on." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  retorted  Matt,  hotly,  "  people  are  so 
accustomed  to  the  false  they  have  no  eyes  for  the  true.  It's 
the  old  fable  of  the  man  with  the  pig  under  his  cloak.  I 
read  somewhere  that  in  Sir  Joshua's  day  it  was  the  convention 
to  paint  portraits  with  hats  under  their  arm,  and  that  Sir 
Joshua,  having  to  paint  a  man  with  his  hat  on,  automatically 
put  a  second  hat  under  his  arm.  If  he  hadn't  found  it  out,  I 
don't  believe  the  public  would  have.  And  weren't  the  1830 
men  laughed  at  in  France,  though  now  they're  thrown  in  the 
teeth  of  the  Impressionists?  It's  always  the  same  tale — the 
revolutionary  is  always  wrong  till  he's  right.  Treason  never 
prospers.  What's  the  reason?  When  'tis  successful,  'tis  no 


A    SYMPOSIUM  217 

longer  treason.'  Truth  and  light — that's  the  right  formula  of 
landscape-painting." 

Herbert  laughed.  "  My  stars,  Matt !"  he  cried,  gayly, 
"that's  the  longest  speech  I've  ever  heard  you  make!  Is 
Cornpepper's  whiskey  so  much  better  than  mine  ?" 

It  was,  perhaps,  not  so  much  the  whiskey  as  the  reaction  after 
the  long,  respectful  self-repression  of  the  evening.  But  Rocks 
caught  fire  in  his  turn. 

"  Revolution  !"  he  cried,  scornfully.  "  Doing  things  literally 
by  halves  —  there's  a  revolution,  there's  a  revelation  for  you. 
The  new  art !  If  the  modern  young  man  can't  draw,  color's  the 
thing ;  and  if  he's  got  no  sense  of  color,  color  is  vulgar.  And 
even  if  he  doesn't  offend  my  sense  of  line  by  figures  that 
couldn't  stand  and  limbs  that  don't  fit  on  he  won't  finish  his 
work.  He  leaves  it  half -cooked  to  show  his  chic  ;  to  take  it 
further  would  be  Academic.  It's  mere  notes  for  pictures,  not 
pictures.  And  even  at  that  half  the  ideas  come  from  Paris, 
like  our  ladies'  gowns ;  if  you  ran  over  there  as  often  as  I  do 
you  could  put  your  finger  on  most  of  these  azure  fellows'  in- 
spirations. If  they  would  only  search  like  the  French  !  If 
they  would  only  really  imitate  their  Monet !  That's  a  real 
worker  for  you — how  he  slaves  at  his  hay-stacks  !  More  science 
than  art  to  my  thinking ;  but  how  he  searches !  These  chaps 
are  such  dwarfs.  Think  of  Leonardo,  think  of  Raphael,  think 
of  Millet — real  men,  with  big  brains  and  big  souls.  No  5  this 
Azure  Art  Club's  a  set  of  bounders  and  bad  draughtsmen. 
There's  too  much  mutual  admiration ;  it  prevents  men  getting 
on;  they'll  find  themselves  stranded  with  a  half-talent." 

"  And  hasn't  Butler  got  a  big  soul  ?"  cried  Matt,  boiling  over. 
"  And  hasn't  Cornpepper  got  a  big  brain  ?" 

"  Cornpepper  ? — oh,  but  this  is  shop  again.  He's  a  good 
little  chap  at  bottom,  but  he's  succeeding  too  young."  And 
in  Rocks's  hearty  guffaw  the  storm-clouds  rolled  away. 

11  You  mustn't  fancy  I  agree  with  him  altogether,  Mr. 
Rocks,"  said  Matt,  simmering  down  in  his  turn.  "  About  the 
morality  of  Art,  now,  isn't  there — " 

"  Ah,  there's  the  Methodist  parson  again,"  interrupted  Her- 
bert, laughing.  "  Hang  it  all,  man,  you're  not  a  virgin,  are  you  ?" 


218  THE    MASTER 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  faltered  Matt,  mendaciously.  He  went 
on  in  haste  :  "  There's  a  cab  !" 

"  No,  I  hate  four-wheelers  !"  said  Herbert.  "  Then  why  the 
devil  do  you  always  talk  such  rot?  Hansom !" 

"They  don't  seem  as  united  as  the  papers  make  out,  any- 
way," said  Matt,  in  shame-faced  evasion.  He  was  ashamed  of 
the  lie,  and  ashamed  of  its  not  being  true. 

"  No,  there's  no  esprit  de  corps  among  artists,"  returned 
Rocks.  "  People  always  imagine  there  are  schools.  But  in 
London  there's  only  the  camaraderie  of  success  and  the  camara- 
derie of  unsuccess.  Good-night." 

"  Can't  we  give  you  a  lift  ?"  said  Herbert. 

"  No,  thanks ;  I'm  successful,"  rejoined  Rocks,  and  went  off 
chuckling. 

"  I  wish  /  was,"  Herbert  grumbled  to  Matt.  "  Fancy  not 
being  able  to  join  that  house-boat  party,  but  to  be  stuck  down 
in  town  by  the  Old  Gentleman  to  paint  Nebuchadnezzar.  I 
wish  I  was  you,  Matt." 

Matt  was  on  the  point  of  consoling  him  by  confessing  he  was 
on  the  brink  of  ruin,  but  that  would  have  seemed  like  dunning 
a  friend,  to  whom  he  owed  so  much,  for  the  twenty-five  pounds, 
so  he  postponed  the  inevitable  explanation. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE     OUTCAST 

IT  was  midsummer,  and  everybody  who  was  anybody  was 
pent  in  the  sweltering  city. 

"  The  sort  of  weather  to  make  one  want  to  be  a  figure- 
model,"  Herbert  said,  wearily,  as  he  flicked  finically  at  "  Daniel 
before  Nebuchadnezzar,"  now  well  on  its  way  to  completion. 
"  But  it  seems  to  suit  the  Old  Gentleman.  You  might  laugh, 
Matt.  I'm  too  languid  myself." 

Matt  did  not  reply ;  he  was  leaning  against  the  marble 
mantel-piece,  pale  and  perspiring. 


THE    OUTCAST  219 

"  What  do  you  think  is  his  latest  move  ?"  pursued  Herbert. 
"  Though  that's  rather  a  bull,  for  the  mischief  is  that  he  refuses 
to  go  on  our  annual  autumn  jaunt  abroad,  lest  it  should  inter- 
fere with  Daniel  and  Nebby.  However,  I  am  to  have  a  horse 
of  my  own,  and  that's  some  consolation.  Talking  of  horses, 
how  do  you  like  Nebby's  left  leg  ?  You  see  I've  repainted  it  as 
you  marked  it."  He  got  up,  walked  backward,  and  surveyed 
the  picture  approvingly,  brush  in  hand.  "  By  Jove,  it's  coming 
on  splendidly  !  I  could  imagine  I  was  in  the  palace.  There  is 
something  in  following  Nature,  after  all.  The  creative  part  lies 
in  the  invention  and  color.  .  .  .  What's  the  matter  with  you 
this  morning,  Matt  ?  You  don't  say  a  word.  Are  you  sun- 
struck  ?  or  moonstruck  ?" 

"  Both,"  said  Matt,  with  a  ghastly  smile. 

"  Why,  what's  up .?"  Herbert  scrutinized  his  cousin's  face 
for  the  first  time. 

Matt  looked  towards  the  model. 

"  You  know  his  English  is  limited,"  Herbert  remarked,  reas- 
suringly. "Unless  you  are  bent  on  talking  Arabic."  But  Matt 
still  hesitated.  At  last,  as  in  desperation,  he  extracted  a  letter 
from  his  breast-pocket  and  tendered  it  to  Herbert,  who  took  it 
wonderingly,  cast  a  glance  at  it,  and  frowned. 

"  The  scoundrel !"  he  said.  "  How  dare  he  send  it  in  so  soon  ? 
I  shall  never  recommend  him  to  anybody  again." 

"  It  isn't  soon,"  corrected  Matt ;  "  it's  more  than  three 
months." 

"  You're  not  going  to  take  any  notice  of  him  yet  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  must." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  Why,  the  shock  would  drive  him  silly.  He 
only  sends  it  in  as  a  matter  of  form." 

"  I  don't  like  not  to  pay." 

"  All  right,"  said  Herbert,  sulkily ;  "  only  you'll  spoil  the 
market  for  us  poor  devils  who're  not  Croesuses,  that's  all.  But 
don't  give  him  the  fifteen  guineas  at  once ;  give  him  five  on 
account." 

Matt  struggled  with  himself.  "  I  can't  even  do  that,"  he 
faltered  at  last,  "  unless  you  can  manage  to  pay  me  some- 
thing." 


220  THE    MASTER 

"  Oh,  by  Jove  {"  said  Herbert,  whistling  lugubriously.  "  I'd 
forgotten  you  were  among  my  creditors.  But  I'm  stony-broke 
just  now.  So  the  old  scoundrel  will  have  to  wait,  after  all. 
Ha !  ha !  ha !  When  do  you  expect  to  be  flush  again  ?  I 
suppose  you  draw  interest  on  bonds  or  something.  All 
Americans  do." 

"  I — I  don't,"  said  Matt,  his  head  drooping  shame-stricken. 
Then,  with  the  courage  of  despair,  he  burst  out,  "  I've  only  got 
tenpence  in  the  world  ;  that's  a  fact." 

Herbert  gave  a  shrill  whistle  of  surprise  and  dismay,  and  let 
himself  drop  upon  his  painting-stool.  "  Here,  go  and  play  a 
little,  Haroun  al  Raschid,"  he  called  over  to  the  model ;  and 
Nebuchadnezzar,  shedding  his  purpureal  splendors,  cantered 
joyously  down-stairs. 

"  Now  then,"  he  said,  sternly.  "  What  in  the  devil  have  you 
been  up  to,  my  Methodist  parson  ?  Gambling,  horse-racing, 
women  ?" 

Matt  shook  his  head,  a  wan  smile  struggling  with  his  shame- 
faced expression  He  already  felt  happier  — the  false  atmos- 
phere in  which  he  had  moved  was  dissipated  forever.  "  I've 
never  had  any  money  to  lose,"  he  confessed.  "  I  only  saved 
up  fifty  or  sixty  pounds  to  study  in  London  for  a  year,  and  now 
it's  all  gone — unless  you  can  manage  to  repay  me  the  twenty- 
five  pounds." 

"  Well,  of  all  the — "  cried  Herbert,  and  did  not  finish  the 
mysterious  phrase.  He  leaned  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and 
supporting  his  face  upon  his  palms,  stared  severely  at  his 
cousin.  "  So  this  is  the  man  who  thinks  Art  should  be  moral," 
he  said,  half  musingly,  half  indignantly.  "  To  go  and  let  us  all 
think  you  were  a  capitalist !  And  to  let  me  in  for  borrowing 
money  of  a  man  who  was  practically  a  pauper !  Why,  I  must 
have  taken  almost  your  last  penny  !" 

Matt,  flushing  afresh  under  his  reproachful  gaze,  did  not  at- 
tempt to  deny  it. 

"  Well,  if  that's  your  idea  of  cousinly  behavior,  or  even 
decent  behavior — "  said  Herbert,  witheringly. 

"  I — I  didn't  mean  to  deceive  you,"  Matt  stammered,  apolo- 
getically. "  You  all  took  it  for  granted  I  was  well-to-do.  All 


THE    OUTCAST  221 

I  said  was  I  had  money  enough  to  go  along  with,  and  so  I 
thought  I  had." 

"  Yes,  but  when  I  asked  you  for  the  pony,  you  consented  at 
once.  I  gave  you  an  opportunity  to  explain,  but  instead  of 
that  you  intensified  the  original  false  impression." 

Matt  was  silent. 

"  And  now  you've  put  me  into  the  wretched  position  of 
owing  money,  which  I  can't  pay,  to  a  poor  relation  from  whom 
I  never  would  have  borrowed  it,  had  he  been  frank  and  truthful." 

Now  both  were  silent,  meditating  the  painful  situation. 

"  Then  you've  got  no  money  at  all  ?"  said  Herbert  at  last, 
in  stern  accents,  in  which  a  note  of  astonishment  still  lingered. 

Matt  shook  his  head.  His  throat  felt  parched.  "Unless 
you  can  pay  me,"  he  murmured. 

Herbert's  face  softened,  his  tones  became  sympathetic. 

"  Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

Matt  was  touched  by  the  transition  from  reproach  to  solici- 
tude. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  manage  somehow,"  he  said,  huskily.  "  I  don't 
want  to  worry  you — you've  always  been  very  good  to  me." 

"  Yes,  that's  all  very  well,  but  suppose  you  starve  ?"  said 
Herbert,  sharply. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  find  something  to  do,"  said  Matt.  "  In  fact,  I've 
already  done  some  illustrations  for  the  Christian  Home,  though 
they  haven't  paid  yet.  I  wouldn't  have  told  you  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  this  tailor's  bill." 

"  Confound  him  !"  cried  Herbert,  savagely.  "  I'll  never 
recommend  him  another  customer  as  long  as  I  live."  He 
started  promenading  the  studio  angrily,  muttering  maledictions 
against  the  snip  as  the  source  of  all  the  mischief. 

"  What  a  pity  the  governor  won't  touch  a  new  man's  work !" 
he  said,  pausing. 

"  Oh,  I'd  rather  not  trouble  him,"  said  Matt,  shrinking  from 
a  supplementary  explanation  with  the  Vandyke  beard. 

Herbert  resumed  his  promenade  with  knitted  brow.  "  I 
wonder  if  Driicker  would  take  them.  If  you  did  sea-pieces — " 

"Oh,  please  don't  worry,"  pleaded  Matt,  concerned  at  his 
cousin's  anxiety.  "  I  dare  say  I  shall  fall  on  my  feet." 


222  THE    MASTER 

"Yes,  but  while  falling?  Tenpence  isn't  enough  to  fall 
with.  You  don't  owe  any  money  into  the  bargain,  I  hope." 

Matt  turned  red.     "  Three  weeks'  rent,"  he  murmured. 

"How  much  is  that?" 

Matt  shrank  weakly  from  shredding  his  last  rag  of  dignity. 

"  Not  much,"  he  said.  "  She  hasn't  said  anything  yet ;  I 
always  paid  her  so  regularly.  But  I  don't  see  any  reason  to 
despair ;  it  looks  as  if  I  can  make  my  bread  and  cheese  by  black 
and  white.  They  were  all  agreed  that  that  was  the  most  paying 
kind  of  Art.  You  remember  that  night  at  Cornpepper's  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Herbert,  curtly.  "  But  I  can't  let 
you  go  away  with  tenpence  in  your  pocket.  I  wonder  if  I've 
got  anything."  He  drew  a  handful  of  silver  and  copper  coins 
out  of  his  trousers-pocket.  "  Eight  and  fourpence  halfpenny," 
he  announced,  dolefully.  "  And  I  shall  want  seven  for  Haroun 
al  Raschid  this  evening.  I  told  you  I  was  stony-broke.  I 
suppose  it's  no  use  offering  you  one  and  fourpence  half- 
penny." 

"  No  ;  then  you^d  have  nothing,"  said  Matt.    "  Don't  bother." 

"  Oh,  but  I  must  bother.  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  raise  a  little 
cash  for  you  to  keep  you  going  till  you  get  work." 

The  grave  anxiety  of  his  tones  troubled  Matt  sympathetically. 
He  was  pained  to  see  Herbert  so  distressed.  Suddenly  his  eyes 
fell  on  Herbert's  battalion  of  boots  ranged  against  the  wall — 
brown  boots,  black  boots,  patent  boots,  riding  boots,  shoes,  slip- 
pers—  and  a  wild,  impish  idea  flew  into  his  brain,  breathing 
malicious  suggestion,  and  even  kindling  a  flash  of  resentment : 
"  Why  should  not  Herbert  sell  some  of  those  serried  boots  if 
he  was  really  in  earnest?"  But  the  impish  idea  was  extruded 
in  a  moment.  It  savored  of  ungenerous  cynicism,  and,  in  so  far 
as  it  meditated  diminishing  Herbert's  wardrobe,  touched  inde- 
cency ;  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  Herbert  with  only  a  single 
pair  of  breeches  or  without  sub-varieties  of  ornamental  shoes. 
He  moved  in  a  large  atmosphere  of  discriminate  waistcoats  and 
superfluous  neckties. 

"  I'll  give  you  an  introduction  to  Driicker,  if  you  like,"  said 
Herbert.  "  I  dare  say  you  have  some  little  things  by  you." 

« I — I've  already  been  to  Driicker,"  Matt  admitted.     "  A  fel- 


THE    OUTCAST  223 

low  at  Grainger' s  told  me  about  him.  But  he  won't  look  at  my 
work." 

There  was  another  embarrassing  pause.  Matt's  eyes  wandered 
distractedly  towards  Herbert's  boots.  The  spotless  battalion 
fascinated  him  ;  the  buttons  winked  maliciously. 

"  How  about  portraits  ?"  said  Herbert,  suddenly.  "  I  thought 
you  did  portraits  in  Nova  Scotia.  Was  that  also — was  that, 
er — true  ?" 

Matt  did  not  at  once  answer ;  it  had  suddenly  occurred  to 
him  that  there  was  probably  another  battalion  of  boots  in  Her- 
bert's dressing-room.  When  Herbert's  question  at  last  pene- 
trated to  his  consciousness,  he  replied  with  a  start : 

"  Oh  yes.  Perhaps  I  may  get  sitters  here,  too.  The  only 
thing  that  really  worries  me  is  that  bill." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  that's  all,  you  can  make  your  mind  easy.  He 
can't  touch  you ;  you've  no  money."  Herbert  laughed  glee- 
fully. "  It  '11  serve  him  right,  the  scoundrel !" 

"  But  he  can  put  me  in  prison,"  said  Matt,  blanching  at  the 
mere  idea ;  "  and  that  I  could  never  survive." 

Herbert's  laugh  became  more  boisterous. 

"  Oh,  you  innocent !"  he  gasped.  "  We're  not  living  in  the 
dark  ages.  A  man  without  a  farthing  is  the  king  of  creation. 
Nothing  can  touch  him." 

"  Oh,  but  they  put  people  in  prison  for  debt  in  Nova  Scotia," 
said  Matt,  surprised. 

"  Really  ?"  ejaculated  Herbert,  surprised  in  his  turn.  "  Well, 
I  had  no  idea  the  country  was  so  uncivilized  as  that.  No,  don't 
funk.  And  even  suppose  you  were  put  into  quod  for  debt? 
What  then  ?  Why,  debt  is  the  breath  of  the  artistic  nostril. 
Read  your  Bankruptcy  Court  daily  in  your  paper,  and  cheer 
up,  d'ye  hear?  WThy  should  you  take  other  people's  worries 
on  your  shoulders  ?" 

"  Other  people's  ?"  quoth  Matt,  puzzled. 

"  Yes ;  the  worry  is  for  the  tailor  who  can't  get  his  money, 
not  for  you,"  explained  Herbert,  with  the  gay  smile  that  showed 
his  white  teeth. 

"  I  must  pay  him,"  Matt  repeated,  stolidly,  and,  lunch  coming 
up.  he  took  himself  off  in  spite  oi  every  protest.  Now  that  Her- 


224  THE    MASTER 

bert  knew  him  in  his  true  colors,  his  pride  would  not  endure 
sitting  as  a  pauper  at  the  mid-day  banquet,  though  he  had  eaten 
nothing  all  day  except  a  halfpenny  roll.  He  saw  Haroun  al 
Raschid  in  the  street  luxuriating  in  the  sultry  sunshine,  and  sent 
him  up  to  luncheon,  then  dragged  himself  along  the  hot  pave- 
ments to  his  back  room,  brightened  now  with  unsaleable  sketch- 
es, and  threw  himself  upon  the  little  iron  bed,  and  abandoned 
himself  to  bitter  reflection.  Why,  indeed,  could  he  not  take 
life  as  lightly  as  the  artistic  temperament  demanded  ? 

He  had  already  tried  other  dealers  than  Driicker,  with  as  lit- 
tle success.  The  Irishman  at  Grainger's  was  wont  to  boast 
that  he  always  sold  his  work  by  pawning  it.  Matt  had  essayed 
to  imitate  him,  speculating  the  outlay  for  a  gold  frame ;  but 
either  his  face  betrayed  him  to  the  pawnbrokers,  or  his  picture, 
and  it  eventually  went  for  less  than  the  price  of  the  frame. 
And — O  vanity  of  resolutions  and  ideals ! — his  horror  at  doing 
Art  to  order  had  dwindled  daily.  In  the  actual  imminence  of 
starvation,  in  the  impossibility  of  sending  any  further  subsidies 
to  his  family,  he  had  broached  to  other  students  his  desire  to 
get  on  this  or  that  paper,  but  could  gain  no  sympathetic  infor- 
mation from  them,  except  that  they  had  already  refused  the 
positions  he  coveted.  On  the  strength  of  some  specimens  sent 
by  post  he  had  been  permitted  to  illustrate  five  short  stories  for 
the  Christian  Home,  but  only  two  had  yet  been  published,  and 
none  had  yet  been  paid  for.  And  so  the  dregs  of  his  savings 
had  dripped  away,  slowly,  slowly,  like  honey  from  an  inverted 
pot,  more  and  more  slowly  the  less  there  remained,  till  only 
twenty  drops  (for  he  had  come  down  to  counting  in  halfpennies) 
divided  him  from  starvation.  The  arrears  of  rent  had  been  an 
agony  more  gnawing  than  that  at  his  stomach,  and  now  this 
tailor's  bill  had  come  as  the  crowning  catastrophe. 

Yet  none  of  his  bitterness  was  for  Herbert,  despite  the  imp- 
ish suggestions  of  the  buttons ;  he  did  not  even  blame  himself 
much.  In  a  sense  he  had  had  value  for  his  money,  he  had 
bought  experience,  if  not  quite  of  the  kind  for  which  he  had 
saved  up  his  dollars.  But  for  those  frightful  fifteen  guineas  he 
might  have  weathered  starvation  -  point,  even  though  by  the 
practice  of  a  form  of  art  he  had  not  contemplated.  To  pawn 


THE    OUTCAST  '225 

or  sell  the  unfortunate  clothes  would  be  but  to  cut  himself  off 
from  gentility  without  surmounting  the  crisis.  His  hopeless 
reverie  was  interrupted  by  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  the  landlady 
entered,  bearing  a  letter.  He  jumped  up  from  the  bed  in  excite- 
ment—  it  must  be  his  check  for  the  drawings.  But  the  letter 
bore  an  American  stamp,  and  was  in  Billy's  writing,  and  he  tore 
it  open,  fearful  of  new  evils. 

DEAR  MATT,  —  I  write  not  because  there  is  anything  fresh,  but  because 
there  isn't.  Life  here  is  so  dreary  and  monotonous  I  can  no  longer  endure 
it.  It  isn't  my  health,  for  that  is  better,  .and  the  fits  are  very  rare  now, 
thank  God ;  but  sometimes  I  think  I  shall  go  mad  or  cut  my  throat  if  some- 
thing doesn't  happen.  Don't  you  think  I  could  come  over  and  stay  with  you  ? 
You've  seen  so  much  of  the  world,  and  always  enjoyed  yourself,  and  I  have  al- 
ways been  tied  down  to  one  wretched  little  village.  The  people  are  so  dismally 
religious,  and  between  you  and  me  I  am  losing  faith  in  everything,  the  more  I 
think  of  it,  and  how  bad  the  good  people  are.  Deacon  Hailey  and  Ruth  have 
quarrelled,  and  she  has  gone  away  to  the  States.  She  came  to  see  us  before 
she  left — she  is  just  lovely — 1  like  to  picture  her  before  me.  I  should  not  be 
much  extra  expense,  dear  Matt,  because  you  could  deduct  something  from 
the  amount  you  are  soon  going  to  send  us  monthl}-.  I  have  mentioned  this 
to  Abner,  and  he  is  willing.  I  am  very  little  use  here  in  the  fields,  and  in 
London  I  might  perhaps  earn  money  by  writing.  I  feel  I  have  it  in  me  to 
write  tales  ;  I  have  already  written  one  called  "  The  Whale  Hunters,"  and  an- 
other called  "  In  the  Burning  Desert."  I  do  so  long  to  be  famous.  We  should 
be  a  pair,  dear  Matt.  Do  you  think  you  could  get  these  tales  printed  in  a 
paper?  I  should  not  want  money  at  first.  I  did  not  like  to  send  them  to 
you  without  asking,  as  the  postage  would  be  heavy,  and  the  winter  has  been 
so  unusually  protracted  we  are  delayed  with  the  crops.  Do  please  send  me 
some  books  if  you  can ;  I  have  read  everything  in  the  school  library  twice 
over.  Novels  and  books  of  travel  are  what  I  like  best.  The  last  we  heard 
from  Halifax  was  that  mother  was  less  violent.  Do  write  and  say  I  may 
come,  and  if  you  can  let  me  have  the  fare  I  will  repay  you  out  of  my  tales. 
Abner  and  Harriet  send  their  love,  and  so  do  all  the  boys  and  girls  (Amy  is 
getting  quite  podgy),  and  with  the  same  from  me,  I  remain, 

Your  affectionate  brother,  BILT,Y. 

P.S. — Don't  you  think  "  William  Strang  "  would  look  fine  on  the  cover  of 
a  hook'? 


Matt  suddenly  felt  faint  and  dizzy.  Raising  his  eyes,  he 
perceived  that  the  landlady  had  not  gone,  that  she  was  effer- 
vescing with  unuttered  speech. 

15 


226  THE    MASTER 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Lipchild,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  that 
your  rent  would  have  been  in  this  letter." 

The  lank,  elderly  woman  looked  grieved. 

"  Lor'  bless  you,  sir,"  said  she,  "  I'm  not  worryin'  about  the 
rent.  Don't  I  know  an  honest  face  when  I  see  it  ?  Us  landladies 
are  always  made  out  so  bad.  We're  always  stealin'  the  lodgers' 
provisions  and  what  not,  and  we  can't  speak  proper.  I  should 
like  to  see  a  book  written  on  the  other  side.  Why,  last  year  I 
had  an  old  maid  in  this  very  room — she  took  her  meals  here, 
and  said  I  wasn't  to  charge  for  attendance  because  she'd  be 
always  out;  but  bless  me  if  the  bell  didn't  go  tinkely-tinkely 
every  minute,  like  an  alarm-clock  gone  wrong  in  its  inside. 
Believe  me,  Mr.  Strang,  it  isn't  the  lodgers  as  is  always  taken 
in.  I've  often  wished  my  son  was  a  writer  instead  of  an  artist ; 
I'd  get  him  to  write  the  book." 

"  Your  son  is  an  artist  ?"  said  Matt,  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Strang,  though  not  near  so  clever  as  you.  I  could 
show  you  some  of  his  work  if  you  didn't  mind." 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  to  see  it,"  said  Matt,  half  amused  at  this 
unexpected  interlude,  though  his  temples  throbbed  with  a  shoot- 
ing pain. 

"  Would  you  mind  comin'  down  into  the  parlor,  sir  ?" 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  Matt. 

He  followed  his  landlady  down  the  narrow  stairs  into  the 
musty  little  room,  resplendent  with  oleographs  and  a  gilt  mirror 
and  two  fruit-shades. 

"  There,"  said  Mrs.  Lipchild,  proudly.  "  Me  and  my  husband 
in  uniform." 

Matt  surveyed  the  large  colored  presentments  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Lipchild  in  their  oval  mounts,  further  astonished  to  discover 
that  his  landlord  was  a  policeman. 

"What  did  he  do  them  with?"  asked  Matt,  rather  puzzled. 

**  With  his  own  hand,"  replied  the  proud  mother.  ''  They 
were  taken  quite  plain,  but  he  colored  them  lifelike,  as  you 
see.  They  would  have  charged  half  a  crown  more  each,  but  for 
a  shilling  he  bought  a  book  telling  him  how  to  do  it  himself. 
My  cousin  Bob,  who  is  in  the  Post  -  office,  said  he  ought  to  be 
an  artist,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him  give  up  his  place  at  Brown 


THE    OUTCAST  227 

Brothers.  He's  in  the  grocery  department,  and  earnin'  good 
money,  and  I've  seen  such  a  heap  of  artists  sittin'  on  the  pave- 
ment, with  the  risk  any  moment  of  the  rain  washin'  all  the  pict- 
ures out ;  don't  you  think  I  was  right,  sir  ?" 

"  Quite  right,"  said  Matt,  heartily. 

Mrs.  Lipchild  thereupon  produced  a  bottle  of  brandy  and  what 
she  called  a  "  seedy-cake"  from  a  cupboard  under  a  sideboard, 
and  insisted  on  Matt's  partaking  of  the  same.  To  refuse  would 
pain  her,  to  accept  would  refresh  him,  so  he  accepted.  In  the 
conversation  which  ensued  it  transpired  that  Mrs.  Lipchild's 
daughter  was  about  to  marry  a  young  man  from  Brown  Broth- 
ers (haberdashery  department),  that  the  young  couple  were  now 
furnishing,  and  that  it  had  occurred  to  Mrs.  Lipchild  that  they 
might  get  their  parlor  pictures  from  Matt  instead  of  from  a 
shop,  if  they  could  get  them  any  cheaper. 

So  Matt  and  his  art  patroness  remounted  again  to  the  bed-room 
studio  and  haggled  over  prices,  Mrs.  Lipchild  pointing  out  that  his 
pictures  were  far  inferior  to  shop  pictures,  not  only  by  their  un- 
sympathetic subjects,  but  by  their  absence  of  frames  and  glass,  and 
that  she  could  get  much  bigger  sizes  than  any  of  his  for  five  shill- 
ings apiece.  But  as  it  came  to  be  understood  that  ready  money 
would  not  be  required,  and  that  the  price  was  to  be  reckoned  off 
the  rent,  Mrs.  Lipchild  ultimately  departed  in  possession  of  a 
month's  worth  of  pictures — six  of  the  prettiest  landscapes  and 
ladies  in  the  collection,  with  Rapper's  "  Library  "  thrown  in.  The 
poetic  street-scenes  she  scorned,  much  to  Matt's  relief,  for  he  set 
no  value  on  the  earlier  Nova  Scotian  work  she  had  carried  off. 

This  was  Matt's  first  sale  of  pictures  in  the  great  Metropolis 
of  Art. 

Considerably  exhilarated  by  the  change  in  his  fortunes,  and 
revived  by  the  brandy  and  the  "  seedy-cake,"  he  reviewed  the 
situation  again,  proof  even  against  Billy's  letter,  which  he  put 
by  for  later  consideration.  He  found  himself  actually  smiling, 
for  a  phrase  of  Cornpepper's  kept  vibrating  in  his  brain — 
"Art's  neither  moral  nor  immoral,  any  more  than  it's  lunar  or 
calendar."  Mrs.  Lipchild's  last  words  had  been :  "  Very  well, 
we'll  reckon  it  a  month,"  and  he  wondered  whimsically  whether 
the  month  was  to  be  lunar  or  calendar. 


228  THE    MASTER 

Under  the  impulse  of  these  gayer  sentiments,  he  resolved  to 
raise  money  by  pawning  whatever  he  could  part  with,  and  by 
persisting  in  the  search  for  an  adventurous  dealer ;  and  reflect- 
ing that,  after  all,  the  tailor  would  be  satisfied  with  an  instal- 
ment, he  wound  himself  up  to  the  pitch  of  applying  to  Herbert 
by  letter,  though  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  a  verbal  request. 

MY  DEAR  HERBERT, — I  am  sorry  to  bother  you  again,  but  if  you  could 
let  me  have  only  five  guineas  to  offer  the  tailor  I  should  be  very  grateful. 
I  hope  soon  to  find  work,  or  sell  some  things ;  and  you  will  be  pleased  to 
hear  that  I  have  got  over  the  difficulty  with  the  rent  —  at  least  for  the 
moment.  Yours  sincerely, 

MATT  STRANG. 

P.S. — Don't  put  yourself  out  if  you  cannot.  You  have  been  very  kind 
to  me,  and  I  shall  never  forget  it.  I  dare  say  I  shall  pull  through  some- 
how." 

Matt  carried  this  request  to  the  pillar-box  through  the  stuffy 
splendor  of  a  summer  night  in  Holborn  back  streets.  As  he 
heard  the  slight  thud  of  the  letter  in  the  box  he  had  a  sense  of 
something  achieved,  and  had  no  compunction  in  spending  one 
of  his  nine  remaining  pennies  on  his  supper  of  "  baked  fagot " 
in  a  muggy  pork-butcher's  shop.  Nightmare,  followed  by  a 
giddy  uprising  with  furred  tongue  and  aching  forehead,  was 
the  sequel  of  this  devil-may-care  diet,  and  early  in  the  after- 
noon the  nightmare  seemed  to  resume  its  riot  in  the  guise  of  a 
reply  from  Herbert. 

DEAR  MATT, — What  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  unholy  made  you  send 
that  letter  to  my  house  instead  of  to  the  club  ?  There's  been  a  devil  of  a 
row.  The  Old  Gentleman  opened  the  letter.  He  pretends  he  did  so  with- 
out noticing,  as  it  came  mixed  up  with  his,  and  so  few  come  for  me  to  the 
house.  When  I  got  down  to  breakfast  the  mater  was  in  tears  and  the 
Old  Gentleman  in  blazes.  Of  course,  he'd  misread  it  altogether — imagined 
you  wanted  to  borrow  money  instead  of  to  get  it  back  (isn't  it  comical  ?  It's 
almost  an  idea  for  a  farce  for  our  dramatic  society),  and  insisted  you  had 
been  draining  me  all  along  (you  did  write  you  were  sorry  to  bother  me  again, 
you  old  duffer).  Of  course  I  did  my  best  to  dispel  the  misconception,  but 
it  was  no  use  my  swearing  till  all  was  blue  that  this  was  the  first  applica- 
tion, he  wouldn't  believe  a  word  of  it.  He  said  he  had  had  his  suspicions  all 
along,  and  he  called  the  mater  to  witness  that  the  first  time  he  saw  you  in 
the  shop  he  said  you  were  a  rogue.  And  at  last  the  mater,  who'd  been  stand- 


TOWARDS    THE    DEEPS  229 

ing  up  for  you — I  never  thought  she  had  so  much  backbone  of  her  own — 
was  converted,  and  confessed  with  tears  that  you  had  been  here  pretty  nigh 
every  day  and  swore  you  should  never  set  foot  here  again,  and  the  Old  Gen- 
tleman dilated  on  the  pretty  return  you  had  made  for  his  kindness  (sucking 
his  boy's  blood,  he  called  it,  in  an  unusual  burst  of  poetry),  and  he  likewise 
offered  some  general  observations  on  the  comparative  keenness  of  a  ser- 
pent's tooth  and  ingratitude.  And  that's  how  it  stands.  There's  nothing 
to  be  done,  I  fear,  but  to  let  the  thing  blow  over — he'll  cool  down  after 
a  time.  Meanwhile,  you  will  have  to  write  to  me  at  the  club  if  you  want 
to  meet  me.  I  am  awfully  sorry,  as  I  enjoyed  your  visits  immensely.  Do 
let  me  know  if  I  can  do  anything  for  you.  I'm  in  a  frightful  financial  mess, 
but  I  might  give  you  introductions  here  or  there.  I  know  chaps  on  papers 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  am  sure  you  have  sufficient  talent  to  get  along 
— and  you  can  snap  your  fingers  at  creditors,  as  you  haven't  got  anything 
they  can  seize,  and  can  flit  any  day  you  like.  I  wish  I  was  you.  With  every 
good  wish,  Yours  always, 

HERBERT  STRANG. 

Matt  took  this  letter  more  stoically  than  he  would  have  pre- 
dicted. He  even  grinned  like  a  Red  Indian  at  the  stake.  In 
truth,  he  was  already  so  prostrated  by  illness,  hunger,  and  above 
all  by  the  heat,  that  there  was  nothing  left  in  him  to  be  pros- 
trated. He  crawled  out  soon  after  the  receipt  of  the  letter,  and 
recklessly  bought  a  halfpenny  currant  loaf,  which  he  washed 
down  with  water. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TOWARDS     THE     DEEPS 

THE  summer  rolled  heavily  along,  bringing  strange  new  ex- 
periences to  Matt  Strang,  and  strange  glimpses  of  other  art- 
worlds  than  Herbert's.  For  he  did  not  starve,  though  Herbert 
had  gone  quite  out  of  his  life,  and  he  had  none  with  whom  to 
exchange  the  thoughts  of  youth. 

Two  pounds  ten  shillings  lent  on  his  dress-suit  staved  off 
hunger  and  his  tailor  (who  got  the  pounds),  till,  by  the  aid  of 
the  landlady's  son's  book,  he  found  out  how  to  tint  photographs, 
and  earned  sixpences  and  shillings  by  coloring  cartes-de-visite 


230  THE    MASTER 

and  cabinets  for  cheap  touting  photographers,  censoriously 
critical  and  given  to  refusing  the  work  of  hours.  By-and-by 
the  Christian  Home  took  him  to  its  hearth,  situate  at  the  sum- 
mit of  a  cobwebbed  ramshackle  staircase  in  Bolt  Court,  and 
paid  him  seven  and  sixpence  for  a  half-page  illustration  of  an 
unworldly  serial.  "  Pay-day  "  was  a  delightful  weekly  emotion, 
the  staff  adjourning  to  a  public-house  in  Fleet  Street  to  drink 
one  another's  health  and  their  own  damnation.  Matt  was 
forced  to  join  them  because  Dick  Gattel,  the  puffy-faced  author 
of  the  spiritual  romance  he  was  illustrating  ("  A  Godly  Atone- 
ment "),  insisted  on  standing  treat,  declaring  with  odd  oaths 
that  he'd  never  been  so  well  interpreted  before  by  any  bloom- 
ing paper-smudger.  He  also  initiated  Matt  into  the  secrets  of 
his  craft,  summing  up  in  a  formula  the  experience  of  a  quarter 
of  a  century  of  story-writing.  "  Emotion  for  the  penny  papers, 
excitement  for  the  halfpenny,  self-sacrifice  for  the  religious." 
Strange  impecunious  beings  gathered  in  this  public-house  or 
outside  it,  uncouth,  unclean,  unshaven  ;  many  had  drifted  down 
from  society,  from  the  universities,  from  the  army,  from  the 
navy,  with  reserve  forces  from  India  and  America,  the  flotsam 
of  life's  wreckage,  and  they  consoled  themselves  by  babbling 
of  the  seamy  side  of  the  successful,  rolling  under  their  tongues 
the  money  these  others  were  making,  and  parading  a  confident 
familiarity  with  their  doings  and  their  pass-books.  Matt  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  that  he  might  one  day  become  even  as 
these — the  damned-before-death.  There  was  another  artist  on 
the  staff — a  thick-set  German,  whose  wife  was  wont  to  waylay 
him  on  "  pay-day,"  and  who  always  wrote  on  professional  paper 
girdled  with  his  own  designs  in  proof  of  his  prowess,  and  ex- 
pressive of  his  willingness  to  undertake  wash-drawings,  line- 
drawings,  color -work,  or  lithography,  at  reasonable  rates  and 
with  prompt  deliveries. 

Through  this  German,  who  was  good-natured  after  his  sec- 
ond glass,  Matt  procured  extra  employment  in  a  comic  -  picture 
factory  managed  by  a  solemn,  snuffy  Scotchman,  who  selected 
from  old  comic  papers  the  jokes  that  were  to  be  illustrated  by 
his  "  hands,"  and,  signing  the  sketches  with  his  own  name, 
peddled  them  in  the  offices  of  new  comic  papers.  Matt  was 


TOWARDS    THE    DEEPS  231 

paid  half  a  crown  per  sketch,  and  his  employer  from  four  to 
five  shillings ;  but  when  the  young  man  tried  to  send  original 
jokes  and  sketches  direct  to  these  papers,  he  got  only  the  same 
two  and  sixpence  for  the  few  things  they  accepted.  One  editor, 
whose  pages  bristled  with  ballet-girls,  took  the  trouble  to  ex- 
plain to  him  that  the  presence  of  a  clergyman  in  a  sketch  was 
a  disqualification,  as  any  attack  on  the  Church  would  be  dis- 
tasteful to  his  public.  From  another,  the  Merry  Miracle,  whose 
proprietor  was  a  philanthropist,  a  member  of  the  school  board, 
and  a  candidate  for  Parliament,  he  received  a  prospectus  in- 
structing him  to  eschew  cross-hatching,  solid  black,  line-work, 
and  society  figures,  in  favor  of  rough-and-tumble  farce  in  bold 
outline.  The  more  sober  of  the  comic  papers  had  settled  staffs 
and  settled  jokes,  and  new-comers  were  not  welcomed.  Not 
that  Matt's  jokes  were  very  good :  labored  verbal  oddities  for 
the  most  part,  intellectual  quips  and  cranks  which,  he  was  quite 
aware,  lacked  the  true  humorous  insight  of  Jimmy  Raven,  upon 
whom  he  modelled  himself,  feeling  no  first-hand  impulse. 
Humor,  indeed,  was  not  his  vocation ;  when  he  saw  the  world 
through  Jimmy's  eyes  he  was  tickled  yet  fortified,  as  one  set 
face  to  face  with  the  prose  of  the  real,  and  finding  it  genial ; 
but  he  could  not  see  it  like  this  himself.  His  was  a  world  of 
beauty  set  over  a  strange,  disquieting  substratum  of  ugliness, 
from  which  it  were  best  to  avert  one's  eyes,  and  which,  per- 
haps, existed  only  as  something  to  aspire  away  from. 

Jimmy  Raven  had  published  A  Sketch-Book  of  Beggars  which 
Matt  Strang  had  found  vastly  entertaining;  and  yet  Matt 
Strang  saw  rather  the  tragedy  of  beggars  than  their  humor, 
and  this  tragedy  seemed  to  him  outside  the  realm  of  Art.  It 
was  only  their  occasional  picturesqueness  that  attracted  his 
artistic  interest  at  this  period  of  his  development,  and  all  the 
figures  of  his  so-called  comic  sketches  were  either  pretty  or 
picturesque.  He  studied  extensively  in  the  streets,  note-book 
in  hand,  fearful  of  losing  the  subtleties  of  nature  through  his 
inability  to  afford  even  the  cheap,  casual  models  of  his  first 
days  in  London,  and  training  himself  to  catch  the  salient  points 
of  character  or  movement  at  first  glance.  Probably  no  artist 
ever  made  comic  pictures  so  seriously  as  Matt  Strang,  with  such 


232  THE    MASTER 

scrupulous  backgrounds,  in  the  which,  when  they  were  done 
in  wash,  he  strove  with  entirely  unappreciated  thoroughness, 
by  careful  adjustment  of  values,  to  make  his  black  and  white 
yield  veracious  color  -  effects.  When  the  drawings  were  ac- 
cepted, they  came  out  so  reduced  and  so  badly  reproduced  that 
the  subtleties  were  blurred  away,  and  the  values  quite  trans- 
muted. Wood  -  engraving  falsified  the  lines  or  photography 
the  color,  and  thus  their  appearance  in  print  was  as  much  a 
pain  as  a  pleasure. 

Matt's  redemption  from  comic  journalism  was  partly  due  to 
the  prosperity  of  the  proprietor  of  the  comic-picture  factory, 
who  started  a  serious -art  department,  where  Matt  found  less 
uncongenial  work  in  painting  figures  into  the  landscapes  of  his 
less  competent  fellow-workmen.  This  gradually  opened  up  to 
his  astonished  eyes  a  new  section  of  the  trade.  He  saw  one  of 
these  landscapes  near  King's  Cross,  resplendent  in  a  gorgeous 
gold  frame,  and  marked  "  Original  oil-painting  —  two  guineas 
only,"  and  another,  in  a  poor  neighborhood  marked  "Water- 
color,  hand-painted — a  bargain !"  and  he  perceived  that  he  had 
been  flying  too  high  in  his  early  attempts  to  approach  dealers 
of  the  type  of  Driicker.  Henceforward  he  haunted  furniture 
dealers,  picture  -  frame  makers,  and  artists'  colormen,  and  thus 
he  occasionally  obtained  half  a  sovereign  to  despatch  to  his 
tailor.  His  drawings  in  the  Christian  Home  attracted  the  at- 
tention of  the  editor  of  the  Working  Man,  and  Matt  was  com- 
missioned to  accompany  a  journalist  through  the  East  End  to 
expose  the  evils  of  sweating.  The  Working  Man  was  owned  by 
a  syndicate,  and  Matt  had  to  settle  terms  with  the  manager,  a 
truculent  gentleman  with  a  double  chin  and  a  double  watch-chain, 
who  agreed  to  give  him  five  shillings  a  sketch.  Matt  did  sev- 
eral sketches  for  each  article,  and  the  pathetic  series  caused  a 
great  stir  and  much  correspondence  ;  but  at  the  end  of  the 
month — when  poor  Matt,  who  had  already  nearly  starved  himself 
for  his  tailor's  sake,  was  expecting  a  goodly  check  to  send  to 
Abner  Preep  —  he  received  only  a  quarter  of  what  he  had  bar- 
gained for.  He  went  to  the  editor,  who  referred  him  to  the 
manager,  who  insisted  the  terms  were  five  shillings  for  the  illus- 
tration of  a  single  article.  "  You  must  remember,  too,  what  a 


TOWARDS    THE    DEEPS  233 

lift  we  are  giving  you,  with  our  big  circulation,"  concluded  the 
manager,  his  double  watch-chain  heaving  pompously  on  his  ab- 
domen. "  It  is  not  every  young  man  who  gets  such  a  chance  of 
showing  what  he  can  do." 

"  You're  a  set  of  damned  scoundrels !"  cried  Matt,  with  an 
access  of  ancient  rage,  and  had  wellnigh  torn  up  the  check 
and  thrown  it  in  the  manager's  face,  when  his  later  chastened 
self  plucked  at  his  coat-tails  and  bade  him  begone  with  it. 
Who  so  helpless  as  the  black-and-white  artist,  his  work  poorly 
paid,  and  reproduced  again  and  again  without  his  control ;  his 
very  originals  taken  from  him  and  sometimes  sold  at  a  profit  ? 

It  was  not  a  happy  time  for  Matt,  this  period  of  spiritless 
work  by  day  and  spiritless  study  by  night,  his  soul  chafing 
alike  against  the  degradations  of  life  and  the  routine  of  school. 
For  what  an  actuality  had  he  exchanged  his  dreams !  Yet  he 
had  no  option ;  the  tailor  must  be  paid,  his  family  must  be 
helped,  and  to  these  two  ends,  moreover,  he  himself  must  exist. 
But  the  friction  of  ideals  and  realities  left  him  irritable  and 
high-strung ;  and  even  when,  towards  the  autumn,  he  won  his 
way  into  the  Ladies'  Weekly,  at  a  guinea  an  illustration,  he  lost 
his  work  by  not  concealing  his  contempt  for  the  art  editor,  a 
pragmatic  person,  absolutely  dead  to  art,  but  excessively  fas- 
tidious about  the  drawings,  which  he  refused  whenever  there 
was  time  for  alterations. 

"  This  is  feeble,  but  we're  pressed  for  time,"  was  his  en- 
couraging apology  to  the  artist  for  accepting  his  work,  "  and 
I'll  put  it  into  the  hands  of  a  competent  engraver."  His  first 
self -revelation  to  Matt  was  his  complaint  about  some  rough 
shadows  on  the  borders  of  a  sketch :  "  I  wish  you  would  bear 
in  mind,  Mr.  Strang,  that  we  have  to  pay  as  much  per  inch  for 
the  reproduction  of  those  blotches  as  for  the  most  finished 
work."  But  it  was  not  till  the  "  old  lady  "  (as  the  other  artists 
called  the  art  editor  of  the  Ladies'1  Weekly  behind  his  back) 
had  insisted  on  his  dressing  his  figures  better  that  Matt  lost 
control  of  his  tongue  and  retorted,  "  I  draw  pictures,  not 
fashion  -  plates."  In  after-remorse,  he  would  have  been  glad 
to  get  fashion-plates  to  do.  He  replaced  the  lost  work  by  re- 
turning to  photo-tinting,  though  he  now  obtained  more  impor- 


234  THE    MASTER 

taut  work  on  enlarged  photographs,  which  he  colored  in  oil 
at  three  and  six  apiece,  managing  to  do  two  or  three  a  day  while 
the  light  held,  without  interfering  with  his  black  and  white, 
which  could  be  done  at  night;  by  which  means  he  scraped 
together  enough  to  pay  off  the  tailor  in  full,  and  to  send  his 
promised  contribution  home,  together  with  seven  fourpenny 
halfpenny  "  Notable  Novels  "  to  reconcile  Billy  to  his  narrow 
existence.  And  then,  with  these  burdens  thrown  off,  his  ideal- 
ism resurged  again,  for  beneath  the  placid  everyday  exterior  of 
this  homely  young  man,  who  trudged  up  foul  staircases,  port- 
folio under  arm,  or  danced  attendance  on  smug  h-less  pho- 
tographers smoking  twopenny  cigars,  a  volcanic  fire  burned,  and 
the  thought  of  his  precious  youth  wasted  and  abraded  in  this 
inartistic  art-drudgery,  under  the  yoke  of  vulgar  souls,  was  a 
dull  haunting  torment.  His  qualms  of  self-distrust  vanished  un- 
der the  pressure  of  obstacles,  and  the  measure  of  his  aversion  from 
joyless  commercial  art  became  to  him  the  measure  of  his  genius. 
One  gray  windy  forenoon  of  late  autumn  he  had  stopped  to 
take  a  mental  sketch  of  a  strangely  attired  woman,  who  was 
listening  to  a  Salvation  Army  exhortation,  a  woman  who  was  a 
dab  of  color  upon  the  dreary  day.  Below  an  enormous  white 
hat  with  a  recumbent  ostrich  feather  and  a  broad  brim  with  an 
upward  slant,  tied  under  the  chin  with  black  bands,  shone 
through  a  black  veil  a  glorious  oval-shaped  dark  face  with  flash- 
ing eyes,  full  red  lips,  large  shapely  ears,  and  raven  hair  curling 
low  over  the  forehead.  She  wore  a  black,  half -masculine  jacket, 
with  big  mother-of-pearl  buttons  and  a  yellow  bow  that  was 
awry,  and  by  a  shapely  hand  cased  in  a  white  glove  with  three 
black  stripes  she  held  the  skirts  of  a  slaty  gown  clear  of  the  mud. 
While  Matt  was  whimsically  wondering  what  the  editor  of 
the  Christian  Home  would  say  to  a  sketch  of  her  in  his  staid 
organ,  he  instinctively  noted  the  other  romantic  touches  about 
the  scene,  ineffably  grimy  though  the  roadway  was  to  the  in- 
artistic eye,  flanked  on  one  side  by  a  coal  office,  with  a  blear- 
eyed  old  man  at  the  window,  and  on  the  other  by  a  canal  run- 
ning lengthwise.  There  were  fresh  country  faces  among  the 
girl-soldiers,  and  among  the  men  was  an  ex-heathen  in  a  turban, 
a  flaring  Paisley  shawl,  flowing  robes,  and  sandals,  bearing  aloft 


TOWARDS    THE    DEEPS  235 

a  red  flag  with  a  blue  border  and  a  central  yellow  star,  around 
which  ran  the  words  "  Blood  and  Fire."  And  while  his  eye 
selected  the  picturesque  points,  the  whole  scene  passed  half 
insensibly  into  his  sub  -  consciousness  as  into  a  camera,  to  be 
developed  in  after-years — the  grotesque  snag-toothed  hags  in 
the  crowd,  the  collarless  men  with  the  air  of  being  connected 
with  the  canal,  one  of  them  with  a  Mephistophelian  red  tuft  on 
his  chin  ;  the  ice-cream  stall  at  the  corner,  where  a  postman,  a 
baby  of  three,  and  an  urchin  with  his  collar  paradoxically  up 
against  the  cold  were  licking  green  glasses.  And  then  a 
buxom  work-girl  with  a  tambourine  began  to  hold  forth,  pour-, 
ing  out  breathless  sentences  all  running  into  one  another, 
clutching  her  inspiration  tight  lest  it  should  escape  her,  and  re- 
peating herself  endlessly  rather  than  pause  for  a  moment. 

"  Only  the  blood  of  Christ  can  save  only  the  blood  of  Christ 
has  saved  only  the  blood  of  Christ  will  save." 

And  her  fellow-soldiers,  quivering  with  unction,  punctuated 
her  shapeless  periods  with  soul- wrung  ejaculations. 

"  Ah,  yes." 

"  Bless  her." 

"  Glory  to  God." 

"  You  may  try  earthly  pleasures  you  may  go  to  the  theaytre," 
she  gasped,  "  but  it  brings  no  peace  nothing  brings  peace  but 
the  Rock  but  the  Lamb — " 

"  Hallelujah  !" 

"  But  the  oldest  of  all  religions  proved  over  and  over  again 
Christianity  tried  in  the  furnace  any  day  you  may  die  no  one 
knows  the  end  now's  the  time  don't  put  it  off  come  are  you 
prepared  once  I  had  bad  companions — " 

«  A — a — ah !"  groaned  a  melodramatic  brother,  with  folded 
arms. 

"  But  I  gave  them  up — " 

"  Glory !"  in  a  great  sob  of  relief  from  all  the  palpitating 
figures. 

Matt  began  to  forget  the  visual  aspects  of  the  scene ;  the 
infectious  emotion  of  the  girl  and  her  comrades  gained  upon 
him.  ~  What  she  was  saying  left  no  dint  on  his  mind — to  her 
dogmas  he  was  become  indifferent.  But  her  earnestness  thrilled 


236  THE    MASTER 

him,  her  impassioned  ignorance  flashed  upon  him  a  clearer 
sense  of  baseness,  hollowness,  insincere  falling  away  from  the 
ideals  that  had  sailed  with  him  to  England,  glorifying  the 
noisome  steerage.  Turning  his  head,  he  saw  tears  rolling 
down  the  dark  passionate  face  of  his  dashing  neighbor,  and 
he  hurried  away,  shaken  and  troubled,  pursued  by  the  cacoph- 
onous melody  into  which  the  street  congregation  had  broken. 

What  was  the  point  of  his  life  ?     What  had  he  become  ? 

At  Grainger's  there  were  fellows  who  looked  to  Art  as  an 
escape  from  some  worse-paid  calling.  That  was  not,  had  never 
been,  his  idea.  To  him  Art  was  an  end  in  itself ;  he  was  of 
those  who  live  to  paint,  not  paint  to  live.  Even  in  his  boyish 
days,  when  the  vendibility  of  pictures  first  came  within  his 
ken,  the  money  had  always  seemed  to  him  a  pleasant  by- 
product, not  a  motive.  And  now,  instead  of  pouring  out  on 
canvas  all  that  effervescence  of  youthful  poetry  that  flood- 
ed his  soul,  he  was  coloring  photographs  and  illustrating 
foolish  stories  for  foolish  editors  in  contravention  of  all 
his  own  ideas  of  what  illustrations  should  be.  Why,  even  m 
Nova  Scotia  he  had  painted  from  the  life ;  in  his  lowest  days 
he  had  decorated  furniture  at  his  own  pleasure.  Oh,  it  was 
sordid,  unworthy,  humiliating  !  He  would  give  it  all  up :  if 
he  could  not  pursue  Art,  at  least  he  would  not  degrade  it. 
Thanks  to  his  Nova-Scotian  training,  his  good  right  hand  could 
do  more  than  wield  the  brush.  Better  to  earn  bread  and  water 
for  himself  and  his  family  by  some  honest  craft,  till  such  time 
as  honest  Art  came  within  his  means.  Rather  an  honest  artisan 
than  a  dishonest  artist.  And  while  he  was  still  hot  with  the 
impulse  he  looked  through  the  advertisement  columns  of  the 
Clerkenwell  Chronicle,  and  answered  three  demands,  one  for  a 
"  joiner,"  another  for  a  "  sugar  -boiler,"  and  the  third  for  a 
"  harness-cleaner." 

The  sugar-boiling  firm  alone  answered,  and  he  was  asked  to 
call.  He  stated  that  he  had  had  considerable  experience  of  the 
manufacture  in  Nova  Scotia,  but  a  brief  conversation  convinced 
the  manager  that  the  applicant  knew  nothing  of  scientific  sugar- 
boiling,  with  its  elaborate  engines  and  differentiation  of  labor ; 
but  Matt's  sober,  respectable  appearance  and  his  conviction  of 


TOWARDS    THE    DEEPS  237 

his  capacity  stood  him  in  good  stead,  and  he  was  given  a  fort- 
night's trial  at  eighteen  shillings  a  week,  with  a  prospect  of 
rising  to  forty.  In  his  confidence  of  mastering  the  easy  detail, 
and  to  clinch  his  resolution,  he  wrote  to  his  art  patrons  throw- 
ing up  his  position  in  each  establishment  with  due  form  and 
superfluous  sarcasm,  and  one  happy  morning,  soon  after  sunrise, 
repaired  to  the  factory  with  a  more  buoyant  tread  than  had 
been  his  since  the  memorable  day  when  he  crossed  the  great 
bridge  which  led  to  the  heart  of  all  the  splendors. 

The  fortnight's  end  found  him  spiritually  seared  and  physically 
scalded.  The  depressing  society  of  the  British  working-man,  the 
ever-present  contrast  of  the  blank  building  with  the  free  forest 
in  which  he  had  made  sugar  in  his  boyhood  (how  happy  his  boy- 
hood seemed  now !),  and  the  overflowing  contents  of  the  seething 
boilers,  demonstrated  to  him  daily  that  he  had  made  a  mistake. 
He  might  have  stayed  on  nevertheless,  but  the  dread  that  an 
accidental  scald  on  the  hand  might  permanently  injure  his 
power  with  the  brush  made  the  trial  fortnight  his  last.  He 
scanned  the  advertisement  columns  again,  with  no  suspicion  of 
what  now  awaited  him. 

He  had  been  misled  by  the  comparative  facility  with  which  he 
had  found  work  hitherto ;  he  was  now  destined  to  re-experience 
— far  more  poignantly  than  in  New  Brunswick — the  long-drawn 
agony  of  unemployment,  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred ;  to 
bruise  himself  against  the  ruthless  indifference  of  an  overstaffed 
nation  ;  to  see  and  hear  the  blind,  deaf  forces  of  the  social  ma- 
chine grind  out  happiness  for  all  but  him.  At  first  he  did  not 
mind  getting  no  replies,  except  for  the  waste  of  stamps,  for  he 
took  feverish  advantage  of  the  hours  of  daylight  thus  left  free 
for  Art.  But  as  day  followed  day,  and  week  followed  week,  the 
perturbation  of  his  soul  and  the  weakness  of  his  body,  enfeebled 
by  hunger  and  cold,  made  painting  difficult ;  and  he  had  not 
even  the  capital  to  expend  on  canvas.  Broken  in  health  and 
pride,  he  applied  again  for  his  old  work,  prepared  even  to  tint 
cartes-de-visite.  But  his  place  had  been  filled  up.  The  stream 
of  human  life  had  flowed  on  as  if  he  had  never  been.  The 
work  he  had  got  was  the  only  work  in  London  open  to  a  man 
in  his  position,  and  this  work  he  had  thrown  away.  One  of 


238  THE    MASTER 

the  papers  he  had  so  imprudently  quarrelled  with  was  willing 
to  take  him  on  again,  but  at  half  the  price.  Subdued  as  he  was, 
a  pride  he  afterwards  felt  to  have  been  insane  spurred  him  to 
refuse.  He  fancied  he  could  get  such  terms  from  a  score  of 
other  papers,  but  he  was  mistaken.  In  truth,  black  and  white 
was  no  more  his  metier  than  humor.  The  rush  into  black  and 
white,  of  which  he  had  first  heard  at  Cornpepper's,  had  filled 
the  ranks  with  abler  men  or  of  older  standing,  with  a  better  ap- 
preciation of  the  market,  and  of  how  to  draw  for  reproduction 
by  the  new  processes  just  coming  up.  And  he  had  yet  to  learn, 
also,  that  the  world  went  very  well  without  him ;  that  it  had  no 
need  for  him  either  as  artist  or  artisan,  craftsman  or  clerk ;  that 
every  hole  had  its  peg,  round  or  square ;  and  that  he  was  of  no 
more  account  in  the  surging  life  of  London  than  the  fallen 
leaves  blown  about  the  bleak  squares. 

He  earned  a  few  odd  shillings  now  and  then  for  his  old  pict- 
ures by  persuading  some  small  skinflint  dealer  to  cheat  him ; 
and  that  was  all.  Once  he  was  cruelly  tantalized — a  five-pound 
commission  to  copy  a  National  Gallery  picture  being  dangled 
before  him,  only  to  be  withdrawn.  He  parted  with  all  but  the 
barest  necessities — with  the  fashionable  morning  suit,  with  his 
pistol,  with  the  Gregson  boots ;  his  only  luxury  was  the  engrav- 
ing of  the  "  Angelus,"  which  he  had  retained  because  nobody 
offered  more  than  eighteenpence  for  it.  The  bulk  of  the  money 
thus  raised  was  remitted  to  Abner  Preep,  as  promised ;  the  rest 
went  to  pay  Mrs.  Lipchild.  Himself  he  so  stinted  that  often 
when  he  went  to  Grainger's  (which  he  had  fortunately  prepaid) 
he  took  care  to  arrive  first,  not  only  because  of  the  warmth,  but 
because  the  girl  students,  whose  class  preceded  his,  left  stale 
crusts  lying  about,  whose  crumb  had  been  used  up  on  their 
charcoal  drawings.  To  such  straits  may  a  man  sink  in  a  few 
weeks,  though  he  sinks  slowly,  for  each  week  is  a  year  to  him. 
But  outwardly  he  preserved  dignity,  brushing  his  one  suit 
scrupulously,  and  glad  that,  owing  to  his  interlude  of  fashion- 
able tailoring,  it  was  still  in  good  condition ;  for  the  vision 
of  the  lost  mortals  was  ever  before  his  eyes,  and  he  foresaw 
that  without  a  decent  appearance  he  would  not  be  able  to  grasp 
an  opportunity  even  when  it  came,  but  would  be  driven  down 


TOWARDS    THE    DEEPS  239 

to  the  deeps  to  join  the  damned  souls  outside  that  Fleet  Street 
public-house,  within  which  the  happier  staff  of  the  Christian 
Home  ushered  in  the  Sabbath  with  beer. 

And  the  more  London  refused  him  the  more  his  conscious- 
ness of  power  grew.  As  he  tramped  the  teeming  streets  in 
quest  of  a  job  or  a  customer,  a  thousand  ideas  for  great  pict- 
ures jostled  in  his  sick  brain,  a  thousand  fine  imaginings  took 
form  and  shape  in  beautiful  color-harmonies  and  majestic  group- 
ings. In  the  ecstatic  frenzy  of  moments  of  hysterical  revolt 
against  the  blind  forces  closing  in  upon,  him  like  a  tomb  to  shut 
him  out  forever  from  the  sunlight,  he  grew  Titanic  to  his  own 
thought,  capable  of  masterpieces  in  any  and  every  kind  of  art — 
great  heroic  frescos  like  Michael  Angelo's,  great  homely  pict- 
ures like  those  of  the  Dutch,  great  classic  canvases  like  Raphael's, 
great  portraits  like  Rembrandt's,  great  landscapes  like  Turner's, 
great  modern  street  -  pieces  like  Cornpepper's,  great  mediaeval 
romances  like  Erie-Smith's,  not  to  say  great  new  pictures  that 
should  found  the  school  of  Strang,  combining  all  the  best  points 
of  all  the  schools,  the  ancient  poetry  with  the  modern  realism. 
Nay,  even  literary  impulses  mingled  with  artistic  in  these  spasms 
of  nebulous  emotion,  his  immature  genius  not  having  yet  grasped 
the  limitations  of  the  paintable.  Good  God  !  what  did  he  ask  ? 
Not  the  voluptuous  round  of  the  young  men  whose  elegant  silhou- 
ettes standing  out  against  the  black,  silent  night  from  the  warm 
lighted  windows  of  great  houses  athrob  with  joyous  music  filled 
him  with  a  mad  bitterness  ;  not  the  soft  rose-leaf  languors  of  the 
beautiful  white  women  who  passed  in  shimmering  silks  and  laces 
from  gleaming  spick-and-span  carriages  under  canvas  awnings  over 
purple  carpets  amid  spruce,  obsequious  footmen ;  not  the  selfish 
joys  of  these  radiant  shadows  dancing  their  way  to  dusty  oblivion, 
to  be  trodden  under  foot  by  the  generations  over  which  he  would 
shine  as  a  star,  serene,  immortal ;  but  bread  and  water  and  a  lit- 
tle money  for  models  and  properties,  and  a  top-light  straight  in 
touch  with  heaven,  and  a  few  pounds  to  send  home  to  his  kith 
and  kin ;  but  to  paint,  to  paint,  to  joy  in  conception  and  to 
glory  in  difficult  execution,  to  express  the  poetry  of  the  ideal 
through  real  flesh  and  real  shadows  and  real  foliage,  and  find  a 
rapturous  agony  in  the  search  for  perfection  ;  to  paint,  to  paint, 


240  THE    MASTER 

to  exult  fiercely  in  the  passing  of  faces,  with  their  pathos  and 
their  tragedy,  to  catch  a  smile  on  a  child's  face  and  the  grace  of 
a  girl's  movement  and  the  passion  in  the  eyes  of  a  woman ;  to 
watch  the  sunrise  consecrating  tiles  and  chimneys,  or  the  river, 
mirroring  a  thousand  night-lights,  glide  on,  glorifying  its  own 
uncleanness ;  to  express  the  intense  stimulus  of  the  wonderful 
city,  resonant  with  the  tireless  tread  of  millions  of  feet,  vibrant 
with  the  swirl  of  perpetual  currents  of  traffic,  pulsating  with 
the  rough  music  of  humanity — roaring  markets,  shrilling  trains, 
panting  steamships;  to  record  in  pigment  not  only  the  romance 
of  his  dreams  or  the  glamour  of  the  dead  past,  but  the  poetry 
of  the  quick — the  rich,  full  life  of  the  town,  the  restless  day  and 
the  feverish  night,  with  its  mysterious  perspectives  of  fitful 
gleams  ;  to  paint,  to  paint,  anything,  everything,  for  the  joy  of 
eternalizing  the  transient  beauty  that  lurked  everywhere — in  the 
shimmer  of  a  sunlit  puddle,  in  the  starry  heaven,  in  the  motions 
of  barefoot  children  dancing  to  a  barrel-organ,  in  the  scarlet 
passing  of  soldiers,  in  the  play  of  light  on  the  fish  in  a  huck- 
ster's barrow,  in  the  shadowy  aisles  of  city  churches  throbbing 
with  organ  diapasons. 

Oh,  the  joy  of  life  !  Oh,  the  joy  of  Art  that  expressed  the  joy 
of  life ! 

Yes,  but  in  the  absence  of  a  few  bits  of  metal,  neither  joy 
nor  Art  nor  even  life  could  be  his.  He  must  die,  be  swept  off 
from  among  the  surging  crowds  of  which  he  was  an  unnoticed 
unit,  and  no  one  would  ever  know  what  mighty  things  he  had 
dreamed  and  suffered  in  his  little  span  of  years.  Every  supper 
eaten  by  radiant  couples  at  richly  lit  restaurants  would  have 
nourished  him  for  weeks,  nor  did  it  diminish  the  bitter  socialis- 
tic sentiment  this  reflection  caused  him  to  remember  that  he 
himself  had  fared  as  wantonly  once  and  again.  At  least,  he  had 
earned  his  money.  What  gave  those  young  men  with  the  va- 
cant faces,  those  women  with  the  improbable  complexions,  the 
right  to  all  the  good  things  at  the  table  of  life  ?  Even  Herbert 
was  splashed  by  this  wave  of  bitterness  ;  Herbert,  the  brilliant, 
with  his  battalion  of  boots.  Ah !  poor  little  Billy  was  right. 
It  was  impossible  to  believe  in  anything — to  see  any  justice  in 
life. 


TOWARDS    THE    DEEPS  241 

And  was  it  worth  while  going  on  ?  The  thought  presented 
itself  again  and  again,  especially  in  those  November  days  when 
London  was  as  dark  as  his  own  soul ;  and  it  made  him  half 
sorry,  half  glad  that  a  grim  Providence  had  sent  his  pistol  to 
the  pawnshop.  He  was  walking  to  Grainger' s  one  evening  in 
such  a  double  darkness  of  without  and  within,  when  the  memory 
came  to  him  of  a  newspaper  paragraph  concerning  people  who 
had  wandered  into  the  river,  and,  hypnotized  by  the  idea,  he 
bent  his  steps  towards  the  docks,  with  a  vague  intention  of 
giving  death  a  chance.  What  did  it  matter  what  became  of 
his  brothers  and  sisters  ?  Tt  were  better  that  they  died  too. 
In  any  case  he  could  not  help  them  any  more  ;  he  had  just 
scraped  together  the  usual  remittance,  but  he  could  not  see 
where  the  next  was  to  come  from.  But  his  semi-somnambu- 
listic motion  did  not  bear  him  towards  the  water-side ;  in  the 
gray  obscurity  he  erred  endlessly  in  strange  ghostly  squares, 
whose  chill  iron-railed  enclosures  loomed  like  cemeteries  through 
the  sepulchral  air. 

London  smelled  like  a  boiled  sponge;  the  raw  air  reeked  with 
sulphurous  grime,  as  if  the  chimneys  of  hell  had  been  swept. 
It  was  not  an  inviting  world  to  remain  in.  A  gigantic  brown 
head  of  a  horse  suddenly  shot  past  his.  He  jumped  back,  but 
a  shadowy  wheel  caught  him  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach  and 
hurled  him  across  the  road,  where  he  fell  on  his  back,  hearing 
inarticulate  noises  from  the  cabman,  and  just  seeing  the  hansom 
swallowed  up  again  by  the  yellow  sea.  He  got  up,  feeling 
dazed  and  indignant,  rather  than  hurt,  and  staggered  along  in 
purposeless  pursuit  of  the  vanished  cab.  He  found  himself  in 
a  business  street,  where  the  illumined  shop-fronts  thinned  the 
fog.  A  familiar  face,  with  a  strange  green  light  upon  it  from 
a  chemist's  window,  burst  upon  him  as  unexpectedly  as  the 
horse.  It  was  Tarmigan's.  He  studied  it  abstractedly  for  a 
moment  in  its  greenish  pallor,  with  its  deep  furrows,  seeming  to 
read  clearly  a  weariness  and  heart-sickness  akin  to  his  own,  and 
struck  for  the  first  time  by  the  shabbiness  and  flaccidity  of  the 
figure.  Then  the  face  took  a  more  joyous  expression  than  he 
had  ever  seen  in  it,  and  he  heard  Tarmigan  saying : 

"  Hullo,  Strang  !     Are  you  lost,  too  ?" 

16 


242  THE    MASTER 

"  Yes,  sir — at  least,  I  don't  quite  know,  sir,"  he  replied,  like 
one  awaking  from  a  dream. 

"  You're  usually  at  Grainger's  at  this  hour.  I'm  on  my  way 
there.  If  you  are  going  to-night  we  had  better  keep  together." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Matt. 

He  went  into  the  chemist's  to  inquire  their  whereabouts,  and 
feeling  a  little  stiff,  had  the  sudden  idea  of  laying  out  his  last 
coppers  in  arnica ;  then  he  began  to  pilot  his  master  with  a 
sense  of  lofty  responsibility.  But  they  walked  in  silence,  mut- 
ually embarrassed. 

Tarmigan  coughed  lengthily. 

"  Ought  you  to  be  out  on  a  night  like  this,  sir  ?"  Matt  ventured 
to  say. 

"  Duty,  my  boy,  duty,"  rejoined  Tarmigan,  gruffly. 

"  But  you  are  not  bound  to  go,  are  you,  sir  ?"  Matt  remon- 
strated, remembering  that  Tarmigan's  services  were  a  voluntary 
sacrifice  at  the  shrine  of  Art. 

"  I  am  not  forced  by  an  outsider,  if  that's  what  you  mean," 
said  Tarmigan.  "  But  that  wouldn't  be  duty,  that  would  be 
necessity — at  least,  in  my  definition." 

"Then  duty  is  only  what  you  feel  you  ought  to  do,"  said 
Matt. 

"  Decidedly.  Any  man  who  knows  what  true  Art  is  is  bound 
to  hand  it  down  to  the  next  generation,  especially  in  an  age  when 
there  is  so  much  false  doctrine  in  the  air." 

"  But  can't  each  generation  find  out  its  own  Art  ?"  Matt 
asked,  timidly. 

"  Can  each  generation  find  out  its  own  science  ?"  Tarmigan 
retorted,  sharply.  "  In  all  things  there  is  a  great  human  tradi- 
tion, and  the  torch  is  handed  down  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion ;  otherwise  we  should  be  in  a  nice  fog,"  he  added,  grimly, 
and  coughed  again.  "  And  a  nice  fog  the  young  men  are  in 
who  reject  the  light  of  the  past,  with  their  azure  Art,  and  their 
violet  nonsense,  and  their  slapdash  sketchiness." 

"  But  they  seem  to  be  gaining  the  public  ear,"  Matt  mur- 
mured, liking  neither  to  contradict  his  master  nor  to  agree  with 
him. 

"  The  public  ear  !"      Tarmigan  laughed  scornfully.      "  Yes, 


TOWARDS    THE    DEEPS  243 

they  gain  that,  but  not  the  public  eye,  thank  God.  That  can 
still  tell  slipshod  botchery  from  honest,  faithful  work." 

"  But  Cornpepper  is  in  the  Academy  this  year,"  Matt  re- 
minded him. 

"  Yes  ;  the  Academy  lets  itself  be  outbawled,"  said  Tarmigan, 
sharply.  "  I  wish  I  were  a  member  !" 

"  I  wish  you  were,"  said  Matt,  fervently. 

Tarmigan  coughed. 

"  I  didn't  mean  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  gruffly. 

"  Oh,  but  they  ought  to  elect  you,  sir !"  said  Matt,  rushing  in 
on  delicate  ground  in  his  enthusiasm  for  the  man's  character. 
"  Everybody  says  so." 

"  Who's  everybody  ?"  Tarmigan  inquired,  bitterly.  "  Society 
doesn't  say  so,  for  I  don't  go  to  its  drawing-rooms ;  the  R. A.'s 
don't  say  so,  for  I'm  unknown  to  their  wives.  But  I  am  unjust. 
Let  us  drop  the  subject.  After  all,  a  man's  work  stands,  even 
if  he  is  passed  over  in  his  lifetime." 

Matt  felt  a  sharp  pang  of  sympathy  for  this  strong,  stern  man 
sustained  by  the  false  dream  of  immortality.  He  could  not  con- 
ceive that  posterity  would  care  a  rap  for  Tarmigan's  cold  classic 
pictures.  Indeed,  now  that  he  had  assimilated  all  that  was  good 
in  Tarmigan's  teaching,  he  only  went  to  the  studio  for  the  sake 
of  the  model  and  the  practice.  Emotion  and  embarrassment 
kept  him  silent. 

"  Do  you  live  with  your  people  ?"  Tarmigan  asked,  presently, 
in  an  interested  tone. 

"  No,"  said  Matt ;  "  they  are  in  America." 

"  Oh,  ah,  yes ;  so  you  told  me.     You're  not  married  ?" 

«  No." 

"  Nor  engaged,  I  hope  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Matt,  wonderingly. 

"  That's  right.  No  artist  should  marry.  His  wife  is  sure  to 
drag  him  down  to  sacrifice  his  Art  to  her  pleasures  and  wants. 
Fine  feathers  and  fine  houses  are  ruining  English  Art.  I  warn 
you  of  this,  because  you  have  the  makings  of  an  artist  if  you 
work  hard." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  sir,"  said  Matt,  touched. 

"  Not  at  all.    You  have  a  fine  natural  talent,  still  undisciplined. 


244  THE    MASTER 

So  long  as  you  keep  yourself  free  from  matrimonial  complica- 
tions you  may  hope  to  achieve  something.  A  single  man  can 
live  on  bread  and  water.  I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  you  have 
nobody  to  keep  but  yourself." 

Matt  smiled  grimly  under  the  imagined  cover  of  the  fog. 

"  Ah,  I  know  what  you're  smiling  at,"  said  Tarmigan,  more 
genially  than  he  had  yet  spoken.  "  You're  wondering  whether 
the  preacher  is  a  bachelor.  Well,  I  am  proud  to  say  I'm  still 
single,  though  I  can't  boast  of  living  on  bread  and  water.  You 
see,  it  isn't  only  the  expense  ;  marriage  spoils  the  silent  incuba- 
tion of  ideas ;  the  wife  wants  her  husband,  not  his  Art." 

"  But  suppose  an  artist  falls  in  love — isn't  it  hard  on  him  ?" 
asked  Matt. 

"  No  man  can  serve  two  masters.  Every  artist  has  got  to  ask 
himself,  Does  he  want  Happiness,  or  does  he  want  Art  ?  That 
choice  will  face  you  one  day,  Mr.  Strang." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Matt.  "  But  I  guess  Art's  enough  for 
me."  He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  quiet  conviction,  and  his  bosom 
swelled.  Happiness,  forsooth  !  How  could  there  be  Happiness 
apart  from  Art  ?  Or  how  could  Art  be  apart  from  Happi- 
ness ? 

Their  talk  fell  to  a  lower  level.  Matt  casually  expressed  an 
ardent  wish  to  see  sundry  R.A.'s,  especially  the  president.  He 
had  only  come  across  the  second-rate  painters  or  the  young  men. 
He  felt  vaguely  that  he  was  at  one  with  Butler  and  Greme  and 
Herbert,  and  apparently  Tarmigan  also,  in  despising  them, 
though  he  had  only  seen  one  of  their  exhibitions;  they  were  in 
power  and  popular,  and  therefore  time-serving  mediocrities.  Yet 
beneath  all  this  prejudice  was  a  keen  curiosity  about  them,  and 
a  latent  respect  for  these  oldsters  who  had  arrived.  Tarmigan 
promised  to  get  him  a  ticket  for  the  prize  distribution  of  the 
Academy  Sclu>ols  next  month,  when  he  would  see  most  of  them. 
The  suggestion  of  suicide  slunk  into  the  rear ;  the  spectacle  of 
the  Academicians  was  something  to  live  for.  Then  the  old  man 
and  the  young  relapsed  into  silent  thoughts  of  their  art,  project- 
ing visions  of  ideal  beauty  on  the  background  of  yellow,  grimy 
'vapor  that  shrouded  the  great  dreary  city. 

But  when  Matt  sat  down  to  paint  that  night  he  found  himself 


"GOLD    MEDAL     NIGHT"  245 

incapacitated,  a  mass  of  aches  and  bruises.  He  went  home  to 
anoint  himself  with  his  arnica ;  in  the  unconscious  optimism  of 
sickness  the  suggestion  of  suicide  had  vanished  altogether. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
"GOLD  MEDAL  NIGHT" 

WITH  a  step  that  faltered  from  nervousness  even  more  than 
from  the  weakness  due  to  a  diet  of  one  meal  per  diem,  Matt 
Strang  passed  across  the  clangorous  court-yard  of  Burlington 
House,  nigh  turned  back  by  the  imposing  bustle  of  broughams 
and  cabs,  whose  shadows  were  thrown  sharply  on  the  stones 
under  the  keen,  frosty  starshine  of  the  December  night.  In 
the  warm-lighted  hall  he  shrank  back,  even  more  timidly,  blink- 
ing at  the  radiance  of  the  company,  the  white  shirt-fronts  of  the 
men,  the  dazzling  shoulders  of  the  women.  Before  a  counter  a 
block  of  black  figures  struggled  to  get  rid  of  their  hats  and 
coats  in  exchange  for  numbers.  Matt  hid  his  hat,  fortunately 
flexible,  in  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat,  which,  being  the  least 
shabby  of  his  vestments  by  reason  of  its  summer  vacation,  he 
did  not  dare  to  take  off;  otherwise  he  would  not  have  dared 
to  keep  it  on.  There  were  spots  of  discoloration  on  the  con- 
cealed garments,  for  they  had  suffered  from  the  week's  job, 
which,  together  with  the  expectation  of  this  gala-night,  had 
kept  him  alive  since  he  had  met  Tarmigan  in  the  fog  three 
weeks  before.  As  a  house-painter  and  distemperer  Matt  had 
still  hovered  on  the  verge  of  Art,  and  if  Butler  was  right  in  his 
interpretation  of  the  Academy  of  his  day,  and  the  highest  art 
was  indeed  to  conceal  paint,  then  was  the  young  Nova  Scotian 
strictly  Academic  in  retaining  his  overcoat  on  this  most  Aca- 
demic of  occasions.  He  marched  with  the  courage  of  desper- 
ation up  a  broad  crimson  staircase,  keenly  conscious  of  the 
frayed  edges  of  his  trousers,  and  mistily  aware  of  overarching 
palms  and  bordering  flower-pots  and  fashionable  companions, 
and  surrendered  the  ticket  Tarmigan  had  given  him  to  a  sumpt- 


246  THE    MASTER 

uous  official  who  seemed  a  part  of  the  ornamental  avenue  to 
the  Academic  salons.  Once  safely  past  this  point  the  haze 
cleared,  and  he  saw,  to  his  joy,  less  fashionable  figures  in  frock- 
coats  and  ladies  in  hats  and  jackets,  and  though  he  wished  they 
had  been  more  numerous  and  more  dowdy,  he  felt  a  morsel  more 
at  ease.  There  seemed  to  be  pictures  on  view,  and  he  eagerly 
joined  the  sparse  groups  of  spectators  that  promenaded  the 
rooms,  in  curious  contrast  with  the  crush  of  the  populace  the 
last  time  he  had  walked,  at  the  price  of  a  shilling,  within  these 
historic  walls.  The  exhibition  was  curious :  in  one  room  dozens 
of  semi-detached  heads,  some  evidently  from  the  same  model; 
in  another,  cartoons  of  draped  figures;  in  a  third,  sculptures.  He 
saw  from  a  placard  that  they  had  been  done  in  competition  for 
the  prizes  that  were  to  be  adjudged  to-night.  He  heard  scraps 
of  foolish  criticism  from  the  people  about  him,  but  his  commerce 
with  art-editors  had  blunted  his  once  sensitive  nerves,  and  he 
was  only  amused.  From  the  pictures  his  eyes  strayed  to  the 
spectators,  and  he  wondered  which  were  celebrities.  It  occurred 
to  him,  with  a  pang  of  dismay,  that  in  the  absence  of  any  cice- 
rone he  might  go  away  no  wiser  than  he  had  come,  and  he  remem- 
bered with  regret  the  personally  conducted  tour  he  had  made 
through  the  Reynolds  Club.  Would  his  uncle  be  here  to-night? 
he  thought,  with  apprehensive  shrinking.  As  he  moved  aim- 
lessly about,  thinking  of  the  Old  Gentleman,  his  heart  leaped  to 
see — not  Matthew  Strang,  but  "  Daniel  before  Nebuchadnezzar," 
and  not  the  "  Daniel  before  Nebuchadnezzar  "  he  knew,  but  other 
Daniels  and  other  Nebuchadnezzars — a  veritable  vision  of  Dan- 
iels and  Nebuchadnezzars,  a  gallery  of  Daniels  and  Nebuchadnez- 
zars, perspectives  of  Daniels  and  Nebuchadnezzars,  stretching 
away  on  both  sides  of  the  room;  young  clean-shaven  Daniels 
and  old  gray-bearded  Daniels  and  middle-aged  Daniels  with  mus- 
taches, Daniels  with  uplifted  arms  and  Daniels  with  downcast 
eyes,  Daniels  dressed  and  Daniels  undressed,  Daniels  with  flash- 
ing faces  and  Daniels  with  turned  backs,  and  Nebuchadnezzars 
analogously  assorted,  and  palaces  of  equal  variety  and  back- 
grounds of  similar  dissimilarity,  each  tableau  differing  in  proper- 
ties and  supernumeraries,  but  all  appearing  only  the  more  alike 
because  of  their  differences,  so  conventional  were  the  variations. 


"  GOLD    MEDAL     NIGHT  "  247 

Matt  divined  instantly  that  the  picture  Herbert  had  painted 
must  be  among  them,  and  he  looked  about  ardently  for  the 
painted  palace  in  which  he  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours. 
Ah!  there  it  was,  the  dear  old  canvas,  though  it  had  an  un- 
dreamed -  of  grandeur  in  its  broad  gold  frame ;  there  was 
Daniel  and  there  was  "  Nebby,"  more  finished  than  when  he 
had  last  seen  Herbert  at  work  on  them  that  fatal  midsummer 
day,  but  essentially  unchanged.  He  felt  quite  a  small  pro- 
prietary interest  in  it,  unconscious  how  much  it  really  owed 
to  him ;  his  touches  on  the  actual  final  canvas  had  been  but 
few,  and  these  mainly  suggestions  in  pastel,  and  his  remem- 
brance of  the  scaffolding  work  that  preceded  was  hopelessly 
blurred  by  the  countless  discussions.  He  was  shaken  by  a  re- 
surgence of  pleasant  memories  of  these  artistic  talks  and  merry 
lunches,  with  the  bright  sunshine  streaming  down  on  the  skin 
rugs  and  the  gleaming  busts.  He  became  absorbed  in  the 
painting,  seeing  episodes  of  the  past  in  it,  like  a  magician  look- 
ing into  a  pool  of  ink.  And  then  he  was  pierced  to  the  marrow 
as  by  an  icy  wind  ;  he  heard  an  ecstatic  voice  ejaculating  "  Isn't 
it  beautiful  ?  The  dear  boy  !"  in  charming  foreign  accents,  and 
he  divined  the  Vandyke  beard  hovering  haughtily  in  his  rear. 
He  felt  the  couple  had  come  to  see  their  son's  work,  and  he 
tried  to  sidle  away  unperceived,  but  an  advancing  group  forced 
him  to  turn  round,  and  he  found  himself  eye  to  eye  with  Ma- 
dame, whose  radiant  face  of  praise  was  exchanged  for  one  of 
smiling  astonished  welcome  when  she  caught  sight  of  him. 

"  My  dear  young — "  she  began,  in  accents  of  lively  affection. 
Then  Matt  saw  her  face  freeze  suddenly,  and  he  quailed  beneath 
the  glooming  eyebrows  of  her  dignified  consort,  who  swept 
round  the  other  way  with  the  frozen  lady  on  one  arm  and  Her- 
bert on  the  other,  turning  three  backs  to  his  nephew  in  a  sort 
of  triple  insult.  The  semicircular  sweep  which  veered  Madame 
off  brought  Herbert  near,  and  Matt's  heart  beat  more  rapidly  as 
his  whilom  chum's  dress-coat,  with  its  silk  facings,  brushed 
against  his  tightly  buttoned  overcoat.  The  glimpse  he  had  of 
Herbert's  face  showed  it  severe,  impassive,  and  devoid  of  rec- 
ognition ;  but  ere  the  young  gentleman  had  quite  swept  past  he 
managed  to  give  his  homely  cousin  a  droll  dig  in  the  ribs,  which 


248  THE    MASTER 

was  as  balm  in  Gilead  to  the  lonely  youth,  and  brought  back  in 
a  great  wave  all  his  fondness  for  his  dashing  relative,  with 
whom  he  now  felt  himself  a  fellow  conspirator  in  a  facetious 
imbroglio.  The  last  lees  of  his  bitterness  were  extruded  by  the 
dig  ;  he  gazed  with  affectionate  admiration  after  the  solemn 
swallow-tails  of  his  cousin,  receding  staidly  and  decorously  up 
the  avenue  of  Daniels,  at  one  or  other  of  which  his  disengaged 
hand  pointed  with  no  faintest  suggestion  of  droll  digs  in  its 
immaculate  cuff  and  delicately  tapering  fingers.  Presently 
there  was  a  marked  move  in  a  particular  direction,  and  Matt, 
joining  the  current,  was  floated  towards  a  great  room  filled  with 
chairs,  and  already  half  full  of  gentlefolks.  He  made  instinc- 
tively for  the  rear,  but  finding  himself  amid  a  mob  of  young 
fellows  in  evening  dress,  some  of  them  sporting  the  ivory  medal 
of  studentship,  he  retreated  farther  towards  the  front,  ultimately 
taking  up  a  position  on  the  last  chair  of  the  left  extremity  of 
the  fourth  row  from  the  back,  out  of  view  of  the  incomers 
streaming  through  the  oaken  panels.  It  was  a  broad  oblong 
room,  with  skylights  in  the  handsome  ceiling,  and  large  water- 
colors  hanging  on  the  walls.  A  temporary  dais  covered  by  a 
crimson  baize  and  ascended  by  a  crimson  step  faced  the  audi- 
ence, and  at  its  central  point  stood  a  reading-desk  lighted  from 
the  right  by  a  lamp.  Matt  heard  whispered  comments  on  the 
new-comers  from  his  neighbors ;  now  it  was  a  knighted  brewer 
who  rolled  his  corporeal  cask  into  a  front  seat,  now  it  was  a 
musical  conductor  with  an  air  of  exile  from  the  central  desk. 
A  few  painters  of  eminence  with  neither  handles  nor  tails  to 
their  names  dotted  Art  about  the  audience,  while  wives  and 
daughters  of  the  Academically  distinguished  exhaled  an  aroma 
of  fashion,  striving  to  banish  all  reminiscences  of  paint  from 
everything  but  their  complexions ;  here  and  there  was  an  actor 
out  of  employment  or  a  strayed  nondescript  celebrity,  and  on  a 
plush  couch  to  the  right  of  the  platform  a  popular  author  chat- 
ted noisily  with  a  pretty,  vivacious  lady  journalist ;  the  mixture 
was  completed  by  a  few  favored  relatives  of  the  students,  like 
Mr.  and  Madame  Strang,  whose  anxious  faces  were  clearly  visi- 
ble to  Matt  in  a  diagonal  direction  a  few  rows  ahead.  Herbert 
himself  herded  with  his  fellow  -  students,  who  had  taken  exclu- 


"  GOLD    MEDAL    NIGHT "  249 

sive  possession  of  the  back  rows,  where  they  stood  in  evening 
dress,  a  serried  gallery  of  black-and-white  figures,  prophesying 
"  all  the  winners." 

A  great  round  of  applause  from  their  ranks  set  everybody 
peering  towards  the  door,  only  to  encounter  the  stern  gaze  of 
the  magnificent  beadle,  whose  entry  had  prompted  the  salvoes, 
and  who,  arrayed  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  rich  red  dressing- 
gown,  showed  like  a  Venetian  color-study  amid  a  collection  of 
engravings. 

A  more  general  outburst  of  clapping,  accompanied  by  a  buzz 
of  interest,  greeted  the  arrival  of  the  less  picturesque  "  train  " 
of  Academicians,  headed  by  the  president.  The  procession, 
bowing  and  smiling,  defiled  slowly  towards  the  dais,  especial 
enthusiasm  being  reserved  for  the  more  popular  or  the  newest 
Academicians  and  Associates,  the  students  having  a  ruling  hand 
or  hands  in  the  distribution  of  the  noise.  Matt  craned  forward 
eagerly  to  see  these  pillars  of  English  Art,  whose  names  flew 
from  lip  to  lip.  As  they  only  looked  like  men,  he  had  a  flash 
of  self-confidence. 

The  president  takes  his  seat  on  the  central  chair,  flanked  and 
backed  by  the  faithful  forty  and  the  trusty  thirty,  minus  the  ab- 
sentees. The  R.A.'s  dispose  themselves  along  the  front  bench, 
the  A.R.A.'s  occupy  the  rear — a  younger  set,  on  the  whole,  with 
more  hair  on  their  heads  and  less  on  their  chins.  The  beadle 
solemnly  slides  the  oak  panels  to,  cloistering  the  scene  from  the 
world,  and  a  religious  silence  spreads  from  him  till  it  infects 
even  the  excited  back  rows.  The  president  rises  bland  and 
stately.  There  is  a  roar  of  welcome,  succeeded  by  a  deeper 
hush.  It  is  seen  that  he  has  papers  on  his  desk,  and  is  about 
to  declare  the  results  of  the  competitions,  and  to  determine  the 
destiny  of  dozens,  if  not  the  future  of  English  Art.  There  is 
no  vulgar  sensationalism.  With  a  simple  dignity  befitting  the 
venerable  self-sufficient  institution,  which  still  excludes  great 
newspapers — and  great  painters — from  its  banquets,  he  disdains 
working  up  to  a  climax,  and  starts  with  the  tidbit  of  the  evening, 
"the  gold  medal  and  travelling  studentship  for  £200,"  award- 
ed every  two  years  for  the  best  historical  painting,  the  subject 
this  year  being  "  Daniel  before  Nebuchadnezzar."  The  presi- 


250  THE    MASTER 

dent  pauses  for  a  breathless  instant.  The  ranks  of  black-and- 
white  figures  standing  in  the  background  have  grown  rigid  with 
excitement.  The  president  imperturbably  announces  "  Herbert 
Strang."  There  is  a  brief  pause  for  mental  digestion,  then  a 
great  crash  of  applause  —  the  harmonious  cacophony  of  clap- 
ping hands,  generous  lungs,  and  frenzied  feet.  Matt,  thrilling 
through  and  through  with  joy  and  excitement,  shouting  fran- 
tically, and  applauding  with  all  his  limbs,  turns  to  look  for 
Herbert  amid  the  students,  but  sees  only  rows  of  heaving  shirt- 
fronts  and  animated  black  arms.  Then  he  becomes  aware  of 
his  cousin  strolling  leisurely  along  the  near  side  of  the  room, 
through  a  mad  tempest  of  cheering,  towards  the  president's 
desk,  a  faint  smile  playing  about  his  beautiful  boyish  lips, 
which  yet  tremble  a  little.  Matt  feels  proud  of  being  the 
cousin  of  the  hero  of  the  moment,  whose  course  he  follows  with 
tear-dimmed  eyes.  He  sees  him  reach  the  presidential  desk 
and  receive  a  medal  and  an  envelope  from  the  great  man,  who 
shakes  hands  with  him  and  evidently  offers  words  of  congratu- 
lation. He  follows  his  passage  back  to  his  fellow  -  students 
through  the  undiminished  tempest.  Then  his  eye  lights  sud- 
denly on  Matthew  Strang's  face,  and  sees  great  tears  rolling 
down  towards  the  Vandyke  beard,  while  beside  him  Madame 
Strang,  her  face  radiating  sunshine,  her  eyes  dancing,  throws 
kisses  towards  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  who,  carrying  his  hon- 
ors, and  studiously  avoiding  the  weakness  of  a  glance  in  the 
direction  of  his  parents,  ploughs  his  way  amid  fraternal  back- 
thumpings  to  his  place  among  his  cronies.  There  is  a  rapid 
exchange  of  criticism  and  gossip  among  the  students,  ejacula- 
tions of  commiseration  for  Flinders,  whose  friends  had  con- 
vinced him  that  he  would  win,  and  for  Rands,  a  poor  devil  of 
talent,  the  only  hope  of  a  desperately  genteel  family  in  Dalston. 
But  comment  must  be  hushed,  for  other  prizes,  some  of  them 
important  enough,  have  to  be  announced.  There  is  a  steady 
succession  of  individual  students,  more  or  less  blushing,  moving 
to  and  from  the  president's  congratulatory  hand,  some  stum- 
bling nervously  against  the  crimson  step  placed  in  front  of  his 
desk,  probably  by  the  beadle  to  disconcert  the  shy.  Some  fort- 
unate prize  -  winners  come  up  three  times,  and  stumble  three 


251 

times.  Sometimes  they  are  girls.  One  wears  spectacles  and  a 
yellow  sash,  and  has  the  curved  back  of  the  student ;  another 
is  pretty  and  petite,  and  causes  a  furore  by  her  multiplex  suc- 
cesses and  her  engaging  charm  ;  a  third  is  handsome,  but  gawky, 
with  bare  red  arms.  A  young  man  who  wins  two  events  attracts 
special  attention  by  his  poetical  head  and  his  rapt  air  of  mystic 
reverie,  and  goes  back  winking.  Then  the  president  commences 
his  biennial  address  to  an  audience  of  students  throbbing  with 
excitement,  afire  with  the  after-glow  of  all  that  applause,  anxious 
to  canvass  the  awards,  and  dying  to  run  out  into  the  other  rooms 
to  look  at  the  winning  pictures,  which  have,  in  some  instances, 
been  dark  horses  which  nobody  remembers  to  have  noticed. 

His  theme  is  the  Evolution  of  Ecclesiastical  Art.  For  half 
an  hour  the  audience,  always  with  the  exception  of  the  stu- 
dents he  is  addressing,  listens  patiently  to  the  procession  of 
ornate  periods,  classically  chiselled,  hoping  to  emerge  from 
the  dulness  and  gloom  of  obscure  epochs  into  the  light  of 
familiar  names.  Then  the  seats  begin  to  feel  hard.  By  the 
aid  of  copious  shufflings,  wrigglings,  and  whisperings,  they 
drag  through  another  bad  quarter  of  an  hour,  relieved  only 
by  the  mention  of  Albrecht  Diirer,  whose  name  is  unaccount- 
ably received  with  rapturous  cheers,  as  if  he  were  a  political 
allusion.  The  next  quarter  of  an  hour  is  lightened  by  the  feel- 
ing that  it  is  to  be  the  last.  But,  as  the  second  hour  arrives 
without  a  harbinger  sentence,  three  brave  men  arise  and  pass 
through  the  beadle-guarded  portal.  There  is  tremendous  cheering 
from  the  back,  which  is  taken  up  and  re-echoed  from  all  parts  of 
the  room,  and  the  president  beams  and  turns  over  a  new  page. 

The  seats  become  granite,  the  presidential  eloquence  flows 
on  as  if  it  would  wear  them  away  ;  an  endlessly  trickling 
stream.  He  enters  into  painful  analyses  of  vanished  frescos, 
painted  in  churches  long  since  swept  away,  and  elaborates  punc- 
tilious appreciations  of  artists  and  architects  known  only  to 
biographical  dictionaries.  Some  have  fancy  without  imagina- 
tion, some  imagination  without  fancy,  a  few  both  fancy  and 
imagination,  and  the  rest  neither  imagination  nor  fancy.  The 
stream  strewn  with  dead  names  flows  on  slow  and  stately, 
with  never  a  playful  eddy,  and  another  man,  greatly  daring, 


252  THE    MASTER 

fortified  by  the  example  of  his  gallant  predecessors,  steals  from 
the  room,  and  blushes  to  find  it  fame.  Amid  the  plaudits  that 
ring  around  this  manful  deed,  Matt  suddenly  finds  Herbert  at 
his  side.  His  cousin  slips  a  note  into  his  hand  and  retreats 
hastily  to  his  place.  Excited  and  glad  of  the  relief,  he  opens 
it  and  reads :  "  Meet  me  outside  after  this  rot  is  over.  Don't 
let  the  Old  Gentleman  see  you."  Matt  smiles,  proud  and  happy 
to  resume  his  old  relations  with  the  hero  of  the  evening,  and 
pleased  to  find  the  ancient  password  of  "  the  Old  Gentleman  " 
supplementing  the  droll  dig  in  the  ribs  in  re-setting  their  cama- 
raderie on  its  ancient  footing.  In  his  eagerness  to  talk  to  Her- 
bert again  and  to  congratulate  him  personally,  the  presidential 
oration  seems  to  him  duller  and  the  seat  more  adamantine  than 
ever.  He  strains  his  ears  to  catch  instead  the  babble  of  the 
students,  who  have  finally  given  up  any  pretence  of  interest  in 
mediaeval  Flemish  cathedrals.  His  eye,  long  since  satiate  with 
the  sight  of  the  celebrities,  roves  again  over  the  faces  of  the 
Academicians  on  their  platform,  austere  in  their  striving  to  ap- 
pear absorbed,  and  again  he  draws  confidence  from  their  merely 
human  aspect.  He  watches  the  popular  novelist  gossiping  with 
the  vivacious  lady  journalist.  He  examines  for  the  eighth  time 
the  water-colors  on  the  walls,  which  he  gathers,  from  one  of  the 
many  conversations  going  on  in  his  neighborhood,  are  by  the 
competitors  for  the  Turner  prize.  He  sees  that  the  hard-worked 
newspaper  artist  in  the  row  in  front  of  him  has  given  up 
sketching  and  gone  to  sleep,  despairing  of  escape.  The  pangs 
of  his  own  stomach  keep  him  awake  ;  he  looks  forward  wist- 
fully to  the  hour  of  release,  resolved  to  treat  himself  to  two- 
pennyworth  of  supper  in  honor  of  Herbert's  triumph.  But  the 
interminable  voice  goes  on,  discoursing  learnedly  and  elegant- 
ly of  apses  and  groins  and  gargoyles.  The  wrigglings  have 
ceased.  All  around,  but  especially  in  the  quiet  front  rows 
under  the  presidential  eye,  apathetic  listless  beings  droop  on 
their  chairs.  Matt  steals  a  glance  towards  his  uncle,  and  finds 
him  the  only  member  of  the  audience  genuinely  alert  and  in- 
terested, his  head  perked  up,  his  eyes  gazing  admiringly  tow- 
ards the  rostrum,  where  perchance  in  imagination  he  already 
sees  his  son  carrying  on  the  time-honored  tradition  of  the  great 


"GOLD    MEDAL    NIGHT"  253 

Sir  Joshua.  At  his  side  Madame  sustains  herself  by  furtive 
looks  in  the  direction  of  the  same  young  gentleman.  Then 
Matt  turns  his  attention  to  the  speaker,  watching  his  mouth 
open  and  shut,  and  his  shapely  hand  turning  the  perpetual 
pages.  He  expects  that  every  moment  will  be  the  orator's 
last.  But  the  great  man  is  just  warming  to  his  work.  His 
silvery  voice,  rising  above  the  buzz  and  the  murmur,  descants 
dreamily  on  the  spiritual  aspirations  of  uncouthly  christened 
architects,  who  had  mouldered  in  their  graves  long  centuries  be- 
fore his  Gracious  Majesty  George  III.,  patron  of  arts  and  letters, 
gave  the  Academy  house-room.  After  an  hour  and  a  half  he 
launches  lightly  into  a  treatise  on  glass-staining.  The  audience 
has  now  given  up  all  hope.  It  has  the  sense  of  condemnation 
to  an  earthly  inferno,  in  which  the  suave  voice  of  a  fiend  of  tort- 
ure, himself  everlastingly  damned,  shall  forever  amble  on,  un- 
winding endless  erudition.  A  reference  to  "  my  young  ar- 
chitectural friends,"  greeted  with  suspicious  thunders  by  all 
the  students,  affords  a  momentary  break  in  the  monotony.  The 
end  comes  suddenly,  after  a  "  Lastly,"  forgotten  ten  minutes 
before.  There  is  a  brief  interval  of  incredulity.  People  awa- 
kened by  the  silence  look  up  sleepily.  Yes,  there  is  no  doubt. 
The  president  is  actually  down.  Then  a  great  roar  of  joy 
bursts  out  from  all  sides.  The  back  benches  go  delirious, 
and  then  the  meeting  dissolves  in  a  stampede  towards  the 
oaken  panels,  at  last  open  in  three  places.  The  discharged 
prisoners  swarm  down  the  grand  staircase  and  besiege  the 
cloak-rooms ;  some  parade  the  rooms  to  inspect  the  winning 
pictures,  now  ticketed,  and  to  express  their  surprise  at  the 
judges'  decisions. 

Outside  in  the  cold  air,  which  immediately  began  to  make 
him  sneeze  through  the  compulsory  imprudence  of  having  worn 
his  overcoat  throughout,  Matt  lurked  about  looking  for  Herbert, 
and  at  last  the  hero  appeared,  carefully  muffled  and  wrapped 
up,  and  with  a  murmur  of  "  Wasn't  it  awful  ?  Wait  by  the 
Arcade  till  my  people's  cab  rolls  off,"  dashed  back.  When  he 
reappeared,  smiling  sunnily,  he  explained  that  he  had  told  his 
people  he  must  show  up  at  the  Students'  Club  in  order  not  to 
appear  caddish.  "I've  been  slobbered  over  enough,"  he  add- 


254  THE    MASTER 

ed,  whimsically  flicking  the  traces  of  an  imaginary  maternal 
kiss  off  his  fresh,  smooth  cheek. 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  wonder  your  people  are  delighted,"  said 
Matt ;  "  I  know  I  am.  I  haven't  congratulated  you  yet."  And 
he  shook  his  cousin's  hand  heartily. 

"  Thank  you,  old  fellow  ;  it's  very  good  of  you.  Oh,  by-the- 
way,  don't  mention  to  anybody  I  let  you  see  the  picture  on  the 
easel,  will  you  ?  One  is  supposed  to  keep  it  to  one's  self,  don't 
you  know.  That's  why  I  didn't  tell  you  I  was  doing  it  for  the 
Gold  Medal." 

"  Oh,  who  should  I  mention  it  to  ?"  asked  Matt,  reassuringly. 

"  That's  a  good  chap.  You  see,  if  it  got  out  that  I  talked  it 
over  with  you  there  might  be  a  bother ;  people  are  so  jealous, 
especially  now  that  it  has  won." 

"  Oh,  I  sha'n't  tell  a  soul,  you  may  depend,"  said  Matt.  "  It 
was  very  good  of  you  to  let  me  come  so  often  and  chat  about 
it ;  and  even  if  I  did  save  you  a  little  trouble  in  working  out  the 
perspective,  I  learned  a  great  deal  about  composition  from  you." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Herbert. 

"Oh,  I  won't,"  said  Matt,  gravely;  whereat  Herbert  laughed, 
and  replied :  "  Now  you  must  do  an  Academy  picture,  old  fel- 
low. There's  three  months'  time  yet." 

"  Would  there  be  any  chance  of  my  getting  in  ?"  asked  Matt, 
wistfully.  He  had  been  fluttered  by  the  applause  of  the  even- 
ing ;  it  seemed  impossibly  grand  to  be  the  centre  of  an  admir- 
ing fashionable  assemblage,  instead  of  a  shabby  alien  hovering 
on  its  outside  rim.  In  such  company  the  colossal  self-confidence 
of  his  solitary  exaltations  dwindled  to  a  pitiful  sense  of  his  real 
insignificance. 

"  Rather,"  replied  Herbert.  "  Why,  I  thank  my  stars  you 
weren't  a  competitor.  I  should  never  have  got  the  medal  if  you 
had  been." 

Matt  shook  his  head  deprecatingly,  but  Herbert  rattled  on 
with  increasing  enthusiasm.  "  Wouldn't  it  be  jolly  if  you  got 
a  picture  in  and  it  was  hung  on  the  line  next  to  mine  ?  Now 
that  I've  taught  you  composition  and  educated  you  up  to  the 
Academy's  ideas,  you  could  easily  do  something  that  would  take 
the  old  buffers'  fancy,  and  then,  once  you  got  a  show  in  the 


255 

Academy,  the  Old  Gentleman  would  take  up  your  work  and  run 
you." 

"  I  don't  think  they'd  take  what  I  wanted  to  do." 

"  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  want  to  do  it,"  said  Herbert.  "  At 
least,  not  till  you  can  afford  it.  Besides,  I'm  not  so  sure  that 
there  isn't  something  in  the  Academy's  ideas,  after  all.  Can- 
didly, I  don't  quite  see  how  Daniel  and  Nebuchadnezzar  could 
have  been  treated  any  better." 

"  I  don't  want  to  treat  them  at  all,"  said  Matt. 

"Well,  anyway,  do  something,  you  old  duffer.  You  don't 
want  to  go  grubbing  along  at  ten  bob  a  week  —  or  was  it 
tenpence  a  day  ?  I  forget.  Promise  me  to  do  a  picture 
for  the  next  show,  or  I  sha'n't  feel  easy  in  my  mind  about 
you." 

"  I  promise,"  Matt  murmured. 

"  That's  right,"  said  Herbert,  considerably  relieved.  He  went 
on  heartily :  "  The  Academy  is  the  stepping-stone.  It's  no  good 
kicking  it  out  of  the  way.  Put  a  picture  in  the  Academy,  by 
fair  means  if  thou  canst,  but — put  a  picture  in  the  Academy. 
You  see,  even  Cornpepper  had  to  come  to  us.  And  even  if  you 
will  do  new-fangled  stuff,  you  can  always  get  in  if  you  make 
the  picture  a  certain  queer  size — just  to  fit  an  awkward  corner. 
I  forget  the  exact  measurements,  but  the  Old  Gentleman  knows ; 
he  took  care  to  find  out  in  case  I  couldn't  get  in  legitimately. 
I'll  make  a  point  of  asking  him.  Poor  old  governor !  I  don't 
suppose  he'll  sleep  to-night.  Why,  he  was  quite  blubbery  when 
the  cab  drove  off.  Do  you  know,  there's  a  certain  pathos  about 
the  Old  Gentleman." 

"  He's  been  very  good  to  you,"  said  Matt. 

"  Well,  and  now  he  is  happy.  Virtue  rewarded.  The  cream 
of  the  joke  is  that  now  I've  got  to  go  abroad  in  spite  of  him — 
travelling  studentship,  you  see  —  and  he  can't  possibly  chuck 
business  for  a  year  to  come  with  me." 

"  Was  the  money  in  that  envelope  ?"  Matt  asked. 

"  Only  the  first  quarterly  instalment.  What  a  shame  I  can't 
pay  you  out  of  that !  Only  I  must  study  abroad  with  the 
money.  It  wouldn't  be  honest  to  use  it  for  any  other  purpose, 
would  it?" 


256  THE    MASTER 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,"  said  Matt,  flushing  from  a  sense  of  the 
misconstruction  of  his  thoughtless  query. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  so  shocked.  You  look  as  if  I  had  already  mis- 
appropriated it.  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  was  to  see  your 
dear  old  phiz  to-night.  What  have  you  been  doing  with  your- 
self? I  often  wondered  why  you  didn't  look  me  up  at  the  club. 
By-the-way,  here  we  are  at  the  club." 

"  Here  ?"  echoed  Matt,  interrogatively.  They  had  been  walk- 
ing automatically  as  they  conversed,  and  had  come  to  a  stand- 
still before  a  blank,  cheerless  building  in  Golden  Square. 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  shanty.  Not  my  club,  you  duffer.  This  is 
only  the  students'  little  ken.  I  told  my  people  the  truth,  you 
know.  It  would  be  snobbish  not  to  drop  in  to-night.  They 
make  rather  a  night  of  it,  though  I  hadn't  intended  to  go  other- 
wise. Hang  it  all,  I  had  an  appointment  to  sup  with  a  girl  at 
half-past  ten  !  I  forgot  all  about  her — she'll  be  mad."  He  took 
out  his  watch.  "  Ten  past  eleven.  Why,  Ecclesiastical  Art  must 
have  evolved  till  close  on  eleven !  It  isn't  my  fault,  anyhow. 
Do  you  mind  trotting  round  to  the  Imperial  ?  She's  in  the  first 
ballet.  We'd  better  have  a  hansom." 

The  young  men  drove  round  to  the  stage  door,  but  the  fair 
one  had  departed  after  a  few  impatient  instants.  "  I  think  I 
heard  her  tell  the  cabby  *  Rule's,' "  was  the  sixpenny  worth  of 
information  obtained  from  the  janitor. 

"  Let's  go  there,"  said  Matt,  who  was  now  quite  faint  with 
hunger,  and  who  had  a  lurking  wish  that  Herbert  would  stand 
a  supper  —  one  of  the  olden  heroic  suppers  that  he  had  not 
tasted  for  half  a  year  —  a  wild  riot  of  a  supper,  with  real  meat 
and  wholesome  vegetables  and  goodly  sauces  —  nay,  even  red 
wine,  and  a  crowning  cup  of  coffee  made  of  real  beans,  not  the 
charred  crust  of  over -baked  loaves,  out  of  which  he  had  been 
making  his  own  lately  ;  getting  the  burned  bread  cheaper  with 
a  double  economy  ;  a  supper  fit  for  well  -  fed  gods,  which  a 
starving  man  having  eaten  might  be  well  content  to  die.  But 
Herbert,  unaware  of  what  was  going  on  in  Matt's  inner  man, 
replied,  cruelly,  "  No,  it's  too  late  to  look  for  her  at  the  restau- 
rant. I  know  her  address,  but  she  won't  be  there  yet.  Besides, 
I  ought  to  show  up  at  the  club." 


"*'&OLD    MEDAL    NIGHT "  257 

So  they  strolled  back  to  the  bleak  building  (Matt  suddenly 
bethinking  himself  that  even  here  supper  might  lie  in  wait),  and 
passing  through  a  dark  hall,  mounted  a  stone  corkscrew  stair- 
case that  led  to  a  hubbub  of  voices  and  a  piano  jingling  music- 
hall  tunes.  The  doorway  of  the  first  room  was  congested  by 
black  backs  over- circled  with  clouds  of  smoke.  Herbert  and 
Matt  peered  in  unseen  for  a  few  moments.  The  little  room, 
decorated  only  by  a  few  sketches  from  the  hands  of  members, 
and  separated  from  the  second  room  by  the  primitive  partition 
of  a  screen,  was  crowded  with  young  men  in  evening  dress  sit- 
ting round  on  chairs  or  knees  or  coal-scuttles,  with  glasses  in 
their  hands  and  cigars  in  their  mouths,  and  new  men  were 
squeezing  in  from  the  inner  room,  the  advent  of  each  being  greet- 
ed by  facetious  cheers.  Plaudits  more  genuine  in  their  ring 
welcomed  Flinders,  who,  it  was  understood,  had  been  in  the 
final  running.  He  came  in,  trying  to  make  his  naturally  long 
face  look  short,  and  exclaiming  with  punctilious  carelessness, 
"  Where's  my  whiskey  ?"  Rands,  who,  it  was  whispered,  had 
lost  by  only  a  few  votes,  was  not  present ;  he  had,  apparently, 
gone  home  to  the  heart-broken  gentility  at  Dalston.  Matt 
caught  sight  of  Cornpepper  on  the  right  of  the  doorway,  and 
his  heart  rejoiced  as  at  the  sight  of  a  laid  supper.  The  little 
painter  was  clutching  the  middle  of  his  chair  with  his  most 
owl-like  expression.  His  single  eye-glass  glittered  in  the  gas- 
light. 

"  Why,  there's  Cornpepper !"  Matt  whispered,  in  awed  ac- 
cents. 

"  Ob,  has  he  come  in  ?"  yawned  Herbert.  "  I  saw  him  march- 
ing Greme  about  among  the  Daniels,  and  giving  them  hell  in 
emulation  of  Clinch — looking  round  after  every  swear,  as  if  half 
hoping  the  ladies  hadn't  heard  him,  and  half  hoping  they  had." 
But  Matt  had  only  half  heard  Herbert.  He  was  listening  to 
the  oracles  of  Cornpepper.  But  listeners  rarely  hear  any  good 
of  themselves. 

"  Strang's  not  in  it  with  you,"  Cornpepper  was  saying  tc 
Flinders.  "  There's  no  blooming  style  in  his  technique.  It 
might  have  been  done  by  an  R.A." 

"  They  do  say  the  result  would  have  been  very  different  if 

17 


258  THE    MASTER 

more  R.A.'s  had  come  down,"  said  the  semi-consoled  Flinders, 
somewhat  illogically.  "  But  Barbauld  had  the  gout,  and  Platt 
is  in  Morocco,  and — " 

At  this  point  shouts  of  "  Strang !"  made  the  cousins  start,  but 
it  was  only  the  playfulness  of  the  room  greeting  a  new-comer  as 
the  victor.  The  youth  acquiesced  humorously  in  the  make-be- 
lieve, slouching  round  the  room  with  a  comical  shuffle  and  a 
bow  to  each  chair.  Then  a  man  got  up  and  began  a  burlesque 
lecture  on  Ecclesiastical  Art  "  to  my  young  architectural  friends." 
Every  reference  to  apses,  groins,  or  gargoyles  was  received  with 
yells  of  delight,  a  demoniac  shriek  being  reserved  for  Albrecht 
Diirer. 

"  I'm  awfully  glad  I  escaped  it,"  said  a  youth  in  front  of 
Matt.  "  I  got  there  five  minutes  late,  and  the  man  wouldn't  let 
me  in.  At  least  he  said.  *  I'm  not  supposed  to  let  you  in  after 
nine-fifteen.'  But  I  didn't  take  the  tip — or  give  it." 

In  the  middle  of  the  address  on  Art,  Gurney,  coming  up  the 
staircase  in  the  wake  of  a  student  friend  (to  whom  he  had  been 
descanting  on  the  absurdities  of  Cornpepperism,  from  which  he 
had  now  revolted),  perceived  Herbert,  and  pushed  him  boister- 
ously into  the  room,  which  straightway  became  a  pandemonium  ; 
the  pianist  banging  "  See,  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes,"  the 
boys  stamping,  singing,  huzzahing,  rattling  their  glasses,  and 
shouting,  "  Cigars  !"  "  Drinks  !"  "  Strang !" 

Herbert  beamingly  ordered  boxes  of  Havanas  and  "  soda- 
and-whiskies,"  and  soon  Matt,  still  in  his  overcoat,  found  himself 
drinking  and  smoking  and  shouting  with  the  rest,  exalted  by 
the  whiskey  into  forgetfulness  of  his  clothes  and  his  fortunes, 
and  partaking  in  all  the  rollicking  humors  of  the  evening,  in  all 
the  devil-may-care  gayety  of  the  eternal  undergraduate,  roaring 
with  his  boon  companions  over  the  improper  stories  of  the  as- 
cetic-looking young  man  with  the  poetic  head,  bawling  street 
choruses,  dancing  madly  in  grotesque  congested  waltzes,  where- 
in he  had  the  felicity  to  secure  Cornpepper  for  a  partner,  and 
distinguishing  himself  in  the  high-kicking  pas  seul,  not  depart- 
ing till  the  final  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  had  been  sung  with  joined 
hands  in  a  wildly  whirling  ring.  Herbert  had  left  some  time 
before. 


DEFEAT  259 

"Good-night,  Matt;  I  want  to  get  away.  I  don't  often  get 
such  an  excuse  for  being  out  late.  There's  no  need  for  you  to 
go  yet,  you  lucky  beggar,"  he  whispered,  confidentially,  as  he 
sallied  forth,  radiantly  sober,  weaving  joyous  dreams  of  his  trav- 
elling studentship  future. 

When  the  party  broke  up  in  the  small  hours,  Matt  Strang, 
saturated  with  whiskey  and  empty  of  victual,  staggered  along 
the  frosty  pavements,  singing  to  the  stars,  that  reeled  round, 
blinking  and  winking  like  the  buttons  on  Herbert's  boots. 


CHAPTER  IX 
DEFEAT 

His  own  boots  preoccupied  Matt's  attention  ere  the  New 
Year  dawned.  Had  "Four-toes"  continued  going  to  Grain- 
ger's,  instead  of  letting  his  subscription  lapse  perforce  with  the 
Christmas  quarter,  he  might  have  convinced  the  class  that  his 
toes  were  normal,  for  they  had  begun  to  peep  out  despite  all  his 
efforts  to  botch  up  the  seams.  The  state  of  his  wardrobe  pre- 
vented him  from  looking  up  Herbert  at  his  club,  especially 
as  he  was  doubtful  whether  the  travelling  studentship  had  not 
already  carried  his  cousin  off ;  and  thus  that  mad  night,  which 
was  a  hot  shame  to  sober  memory,  grew  to  seem  an  unreal 
nightmare,  and  Herbert  as  distant  as  ever. 

A  vagrant  atom  of  the  scum  of  the  city,  he  tasted  all  the 
bitterness  of  a  million-peopled  solitude.  His  quest  for  work 
was  the  more  hopeless  the  shabbier  his  appearance  grew.  In 
optimistic  after-dinner  moods  he  had  thought  the  spectacle  of 
the  streets  sufficient,  and  to  feast  one's  eyes  on  the  pageant  of 
life  a  cloy  less  ecstasy ;  and,  indeed,  in  the  first  days  of  his 
wanderings,  the  merest  artistic  touch  in  the  wintry  streets 
could  still  give  him  a  pleasurable  sensation  that  was  a  tempo- 
rary anodyne — the  yellow  sand  scattered  on  slippery  days  along 
the  tram  lines,  and  showing  like  a  spilth  of  summer  sunshine ; 
the  warm  front  of  a  public-house,  making  the  only  spot  of  color 


260  THE    MASTER 

in  the  long  suburban  street ;  strange  faces  seen  for  an  instant  in 
fog  and  lost  forever ;  snow-flakes  tumbling  over  one  another  in 
their  haste,  or  fluttering  lingeringly  to  earth ;  red  suns,  gray- 
ringed,  like  school-boys'  taws — but,  as  the  slow  days  unfolded 
their  sordid  unchanging  coils,  he  found  himself  shrinking  more 
and  more  into  himself.  He  sought  warmth  and  refuge  from 
reality  in  the  National  Gallery  or  the  British  Museum,  dreaming 
away  the  hours  before  the  more  imaginative  pictures  or  the 
Elgin  marbles.  But  even  these  failed  him  at  last,  their  beauty  an 
intolerable  irony.  Sometimes  he  realized  with  a  miserable  start 
the  real  tragedy  of  being  "  out  of  work,"  how  it  narrowed  the 
horizon  down  to  the  prospect  of  meals,  so  that  the  great  move- 
ment of  the  world  from  which  he  was  shut  out  left  him  equally 
exclusive,  and  the  announcements  on  the  newspaper  posters — 
wars  and  international  football  and  the  opening  of  parks  and 
new  plays  and  the  deaths  of  great  men  and  the  rise  of  minis- 
tries— struck  no  responsive  chord  in  his  imagination,  were  all 
shadowy  emanations  from  some  unreal  mockery  of  a  universe. 
The  real  universe  had  his  own  navel  for  centre.  Sometimes  a 
faint  perception  of  the  humor  of  the  position  distorted  his  lips 
in  a  melancholy  smile;  he  wondered  how  he  would  come  out 
under  Jimmy  Raven's  pencil.  At  other  times  he  lay  huddled 
up  in  his  bed,  his  fading  clothes  heaped  over  the  one  blanket, 
passing  the  day  in  an  apathetic  trance,  interrupted  only  by  the 
intermittent  working  of  his  imagination,  or  by  observation  of 
optical  effects  that  accidentally  arrested  his  gaze ;  and  the  next 
day,  in  remorse  for  lost  possibilities,  he  would  rise  before  dawn, 
and  recommence  his  search  for  employment. 

From  such  a  long  day's  tramp  he  was  shuffling  homeward 
late  one  dark,  dismal  night,  when,  pausing  to  warm  his  feet  and 
hands  at  the  cellar-grating  of  a  baker's  shop,  he  was  accosted 
by  William  Gregson,  striding  along  with  a  frown  on  his  fore- 
head and  a  brown-paper  parcel  in  his  hand. 

"  Hullo,  Fourt — Strang !"  he  cried,  pausing.  "  Don't  see  you 
any  more." 

"  No,"  said  Matt,  wishing  Gregson  wouldn't  see  him  now, 
and  edging  a  little  away  from  a  street-lamp. 

"  You  don't  want  any  boots  ?" 


DEFEAT  261 

"  No,"  said  Matt,  sticking  his  toes  downward  to  hide  the  gaps 
as  far  as  possible. 

'*  You  won't  forget  I  am  at  your  service  whatever  you  want," 
said  the  little  stooping  old  man,  with  shining  enthusiastic  eyes. 
"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  work  for  a  man  with  feet  like  yours.  I 
was  only  thinkin'  of  you  to-night  at  the  studio — a  scurvy  wretch 
has  been  servin'  me  a  shabby  trick,  and  I  was  thinkin'  to  my- 
self :  Ah,  Four — ah,  Strang,  there's  a  difference  now  !  Strang's 
a  man  and  a  brother  artist.  This  bloke's  a  'artless  biped." 

"  Why,  what  did  he  do  ?" 

"  There's  no  need  to  go  into  details,"  said  William  Gregson, 
pathetically.  "  Suffice  it  to  say  he  refuses  the  boots.  And 
here  they  are.  A  beautiful  pair !  Left  on  my  hands !  After 
I  sat  up  half  the  night  to  finish  'em  for  him,  trade's  so  brisk 
just  now." 

He  unwrapped  the  package  to  expose  their  perfections. 

"  And  what  will  you  do  with  them  ?"  said  Matt. 

"  I'd  like  to  put  'em  on  and  kick  him  with  'em,"  replied 
Gregson,  gloomily.  "  Only  they're  too  small."  Gregson's  own 
feet  were  decidedly  not  beautiful. 

"  Yes,  they  seem  more  my  size,"  agreed  Matt. 

"Will  you  have  them?"  cried  the  old  man,  eagerly.  "Name 
your  own  price !  Don't  be  afraid.  I  sha'n't  ask  more  than 
last  time." 

But  Matt  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  hard  up,"  he  confessed, 
blushing  in  the  lamplight. 

"  I'll  trust  you,"  was  the  fervid  response. 

"I'd  never  pay  you,"  Matt  protested,  "unless  I  could  do 
something  for  you  in  return.  If  you  want,"  he  hesitated, 
"  your  shop  painted,  or  any  wall-papering,  or — or  I  could  build 
you  a  counter,  or — " 

But  the  shoemaker  was  shaking  his  head.  "  I  don't  want 
my  shop  painted — but  'ow  if  you  painted  me  ?"  he  cried,  with 
an  inspiration.  "  I've  often  tried  to  do  it  myself,  but  some'ow 
an  angelic  expression  gets  into  it,  and  the  missus  don't  recognize 
it.  Have  you  ever  tried  doin'  your  own  portrait,  Strang?" 

"  No — not  seriously,"  said  Matt. 

"  Well,  you  try,  and  see  if  you  don't  find  it  as  I  say.     It's 


262  THE    MASTER 

a  curious  thing  how  that  angelic  expression  will  creep  in  when 
a  man's  paintin'  his  own  portrait.  Besides,  you  can  paint  better 
than  me ;  I  don't  say  it  behind  your  back,  but — " 

"  Then  it's  a  bargain  ?"  interrupted  Matt,  anxiously. 

"  Yes ;  I  can  give  you  an  hour  every  mornin'.  Trade's  so 
slack,  unfortunately." 

"  May  I  take  the  boots  with  me  ?"  inquired  Matt. 

"  Yes,  the  moment  the  portrait's  done,"  said  Gregson,  in 
generous  accents. 

"  Are  you  afraid  I'll  walk  off  in  'em  ?"  Matt  cried,  angrily. 
"And  suppose  they  don't  fit?" 

"  Ah,  well ;  you  may  try  them  on,"  conceded  Gregson.  And, 
with  a  curious  repetition  of  a  former  episode,  Matt  slipped  off 
his  boot  under  a  street-lamp.  The  boots  were  a  little  tight, 
especially  after  the  yawning  laxness  of  the  old ;  but  it  was 
heavenly  to  stamp  on  the  wet  pavement  and  to  feel  a  solid 
sole  under  one's  foot,  even  though  an  oozy,  sloppy  stocking  in- 
tervened. 

Gregson  perceived  the  ruin  of  the  vacant  boot,  and  his  face 
grew  stern. 

"  Keep  it  on,  keep  it  on,"  he  said,  harshly.  "  You're  an  old 
customer." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !"  ejaculated  Matt. 

"  You  can  give  me  the  old  pair,"  he  rejoined,  gruffly. 

"  Oh,  but  they're  past  mending,"  said  Matt. 

"  But  they  can  help  to  mend  other  boots.  They're  like  clergy- 
men," said  the  little  shoemaker,  laughing  grimly.  "  Nothing 
is  ever  wasted  in  this  world." 

Matt  was  thinking  so  too,  though  from  a  different  point  of 
view.  He  was  grateful  to  the  economical  order  of  the  universe. 

The  boots  reinvigorated  the  pilgrim  on  his  way  to  the  ever- 
receding  Mecca  of  employment,  and  each  day  he  sallied  forth 
further  refreshed  by  the  bread  and  butter  and  tea  which  Will- 
iam Gregson's  spouse  dispensed  after  the  sittings.  All  over 
London  he  tramped.  One  day  he  wandered  in  hopes  of  a  job 
among  the  docks  of  Rotherhithe,  feeling  a  vague  romance  in 
the  great  gray  perspectives  of  towering  wood-stacks  with  their 
far-away  flavor  of  exotic  forests,  and  in  the  sombre  canals  and 


DEFEAT  263 

locks  along  which  men  with  cordwain  faces  were  tugging  dis- 
colored barges.  The  desolation  of  the  scene  and  of  the  district 
was  akin  to  his  mood — his  eyes  were  full  of  delicious  hopeless 
tears;  he  rambled  on,  forgetting  to  ask  for  the  job,  through  the 
forlorn  streets,  all  ship-chandler  shops  and  one-story  cottages, 
and  threading  a  narrow  passage  strewn  with  lounging  louts, 
found  himself  on  a  little  floating  pier  on  the  bank  of  the  river, 
and  lost  himself  again  in  contemplating  the  grimy  picturesque 
traffic,  the  bleak  wharves  and  warehouses. 

"  You  see  that  air  barge  with  the  brick-dust  sails  ?" 

Matt  started ;  an  aged  gentleman  with  a  rusty  silk  hat  was 
addressing  him. 

"  Well,  t'other  day  I  see  one  just  like  that  capsize  in  calm 
weather  under  my  very  eyes.  I  come  here  every  day  after  din- 
ner to  watch  the  water,  and  I  do  get  something  worth  seein' 
sometimes.  The  pier-master  he  told  me  it  was  loaded  with 
road-slop,  and  road-slop's  alive — shifts  the  weight  on  the  lurchin' 
side,  you  see,  and  that's  'ow  it  occurred.  There  was  two  men 
drowned — oh !  it's  worth  while  coming  here  sometimes,  I  can 
tell  you.  You  see  that  green  flag  off  the  buoy  ? — that's  where 
she  lays,  right  in  the  fairway  of  the  river." 

Here  the  aged  gentleman  snuffed  himself  with  tremulous 
fingers  that  spilled  half,  and  offered  Matt  the  box.  The  young 
man  took  a  pinch  for  exhilaration. 

A  strayed  sparrow  hopped  dolefully  amid  the  grains  of  snuff 
on  the  floating  platform  in  futile  quest  of  seeds. 

"  It  would  be  'appier  stuffed,"  the  aged  gentleman  declared. 
"  I  mean  with  tow,  not  toke."  And  he  laughed  wheezingly. 

Matt  contesting  this,  the  aged  gentleman  maintained,  with  an 
air  of  deep  philosophy,  that  all  birds  would  be  'appier  stuffed — 
that  their  life  in  a  state  of  nature  was  a  harrowing  competition 
for  crumbs  and  worms,  while  to  keep  them  alive  in  cages  was 
the  climax  of  cruelty. 

It  subsequently  transpired  that  he  was  a  retired  bird-stuffer, 
and  the  conversation  ended  in  Matt's  accompanying  him  home 
to  learn  the  process,  as  the  bird-stuffer's  son  and  heir  in  far-off 
Stepney  was  in  need  of  a  trustworthy  hand  in  the  shop. 

"  There  isn't  a  honest  'art  in  the  trade,"  he  said,  gloomily, 


264  THE    MASTER 

"and  the  boys  are  wuss  than  the  men.  They  ought  to  be 
stuffed.  What  I  like  about  you  is  that  you've  got  no  character. 
The  better  the  character  the  wuss  the  man.  They  takes  advan- 
tage of  it." 

Arrived  at  his  house — which  was  more  pretentious  than  most 
of  its  one-story  neighbors — for  it  had  a  basement  sublet  to  a 
blind  woman  whose  insignia  read,  "  Chairs  neatly  cained  on 
reasonable  terms,"  and  its  parlor  window  was  gay  with  wax 
fruits  and  stuffed  birds — the  aged  gentleman,  who  gave  the  name 
of  Ground,  discovered  that  he  had  no  skin  to  operate  on,  and, 
being  spent  from  the  walk,  directed  Matt  to  buy  a  dead  canary 
for  sixpence  from  a  bird-fancier  "  in  the  Eye  Road." 

"  There's  the  tanner,"  he  said.  "  Now  if  you  don't  come 
back  with  the  bird  you  may  stuff  me  for  a  old  goose." 

Matt  came  back  with  the  bird,  but  the  aged  gentleman  put  it 
to  his  nose  and  contorted  his  aged  snuff-colored  nostrils. 

"  I  want  a  bird,  not  manure,"  he  said.  "  A  bird  fresh  from 
this  wale  of  tears.  Why,  if  I  began  to  skin  this  the  feathers 
'ould  drop  out.  You've  been  took  in,  but  you  haven't  took  me 
in,  so  here's  another  tanner." 

In  great  anxiety  Matt  stood  outside  the  bird-fancier's  shop- 
window,  staring  wistfully  at  the  frowsy-looking  birds  roosting  in 
the  cages,  and  hoping  that  some  kindly  canary  would  drop  off 
to  eternal  sleep  under  his  very  nose  so  that  he  might  be  sure  of 
its  freshness.  But  the  poor  little  creatures  all  clung  to  exist- 
ence and  their  perches.  Suddenly  he  began  to  laugh.  There 
was  an  owl  in  a  cage,  and  it  looked  like  Cornpepper.  On  its 
head  was  an  erectile  tuft  like  Cornpepper's  hair  after  argument, 
and,  though  devoid  of  an  eye-glass,  the  creature  regarded  him 
from  its  great  feather-fringed  eyes  with  the  same  large,  pro- 
found gaze. 

"Give  me  style,"  he  heard  it  saying,  "give  me  style." 

And  then  he  thought  of  Cornpepper's  theories,  of  which  he 
had  heard  more  on  that  glad  mad  night  when  the  juvenile 
celebrity  had  been  his  partner  in  the  waltz. 

"  Erie-Smith  is  all  wrong,"  Cornpepper  had  pronounced,  test- 
ily. "But  I  don't  want  to  talk  shop  to-night.  Imagination  is 
shown  in  treatment,  not  in  subject.  There  may  be  more  imag- 


DEFEAT  265 

ination  in  the  painting  of  a  dressing-gown  than  of  an  allegory. 
Painters  are  called  poets  when  they  can't  paint.  And  the 
Saturday  Spectator  is  quite  at  sea  when  it  claims  me  as  the 
champion  of  modern  subject  against  ancient,  mediaeval,  or  imagi- 
nary. Subject,  indeed  !  What  I  demand  is  modern  treatment. 
I  do  wish  O'Brien  would  leave  off  interpreting  me." 

And  Matt  Strang  fell  into  a  reverie,  wondering  what  he 
should  paint  for  the  Academy,  and  gazing  into  the  owl's  eyes. 
What  if  he  were  destined  to  waltz  to  fame  in  company  with 
Cornpepper !  And  then  he  remembered  Gurney's  enthusiastic 
talk  during  the  pauses  of  the  wild  waltz  in  denunciation  of  the 
"real  moments"  of  Cornpepperism,  and  in  acclamation  of  the 
simpler  harmonies  of  Outamaro,  the  great  Japanese  master,  from 
whose  work  Cornpepper's  was  a  rotten  retrogression  rather  than 
a  legitimate  evolution.  Matt  speculatively  surrendered  his  fancy 
to  Japanese  images.  A  gallery  of  beautiful  dream-pictures 
passed  before  his  eyes  like  a  panorama.  A  brusque  tap  on  the 
shoulder  roused  him  from  his  day-dream,  and  turning,  he  saw 
the  animated  face  of  the  aged  gentleman  beneath  the  rusty  silk 
hat. 

"Where's  the  bloomin'  bird?"  cried  Mr.  Ground,  relieved 
to  find  Matt  not  run  off,  for  during  the  suspense  of  waiting  it 
had  struck  him  that  even  the  first  bird  might  have  been  picked 
up  in  the  gutter. 

"  The  bird,"  Matt  murmured,  dazedly.  "  Oh  !  Ah  !  I  was 
waiting  for  one  to  die.  I  wanted  to  be  sure  it  was — new." 

"  With  my  little  eye,  I  sore  'im  die,"  quoted  the  aged  gentle- 
man, mockingly.  "  'Ere,  give  us  the  cash — you're  a  juggins. 
But  I  suppose  folks  can't  be  honest  and  clever  too." 

He  took  the  sixpence  and  went  inside,  and  re-emerged  with 
what  he  called  a  "  new-laid  "  linnet,  and  returning  to  his  parlor, 
skinned  it,  and  smeared  the  skin  with  arsenical  soap,  which  he 
manufactured  on  the  spot  out  of  common  yellow  soap  beaten 
up  into  a  batter  with  water,  white  arsenic,  and  some  drops  of 
toothache  mixture  he  had  in  a  vial.  He  stuffed  the  skin  with 
the  cotton-wool  in  which  the  vial  was  embedded,  and  ran  a  wire 
right  through  from  mouth  to  tail,  with  half  a  hair-pin  for  each 
leg  and  each  wing. 


266  THE    MASTER 

"  I'm  out  of  eyes,"  he  said,  pausing.  "  But  in  them  sockets 
you  sticks  glass  eyes — they're  so  much  a  dozen,  according  to 
size.  See  ?" 

Matt's  aptitude  as  a  pupil  regained  him  the  aged  gentleman's 
esteem,  and  a  day  or  so  after  the  oddly  assorted  couple  sailed 
down  the  Thames  on  a  penny  steamboat,  and  walked  from 
Blackwall  to  Stepney,  where  Matt  was  introduced  to  the  bird- 
stuffer's  son,  a  fat,  greasy,  hilarious  man,  who  told  his  father 
that  he  was  "  a  old  innercent,"  and  facetiously  argued  out  the 
probabilities  of  Matt's  honesty  in  Matt's  presence.  Ultimately, 
Ground  Junior  took  the  young  man  on  a  week's  trial.  The 
trial  going  in  Matt's  favor,  he  was  installed  permanently  in  the 
establishment  at  eighteen  shillings  a  week,  fulfilling  miscella- 
neous functions,  the  most  troublesome  of  which  was  the  super- 
intendence of  a  snub-nosed  errand-boy,  who  played  excruciat- 
ingly on  a  penny  whistle.  This  boy,  whose  name  was  Tommy, 
and  who  reminded  Matt  queerly  of  his  ancient  Indian  chum  by 
his  dishonesty  as  well  as  by  his  name,  would  calmly  return  with 
bare  pedestals  where  there  had  been  birds  and  shades,  and  as- 
sert that  he  had  smashed  the  glass,  and  that  thieves  in  the 
crowd  had  torn  off  the  birds.  He  did  not  flinch  from  smash- 
ing whole  nests  of  glass  shades,  two  dozen  inside  one  another, 
a  veritable  Napoleon  among  errand-boys.  Sometimes,  when 
he  had  been  out  with  the  barrow  delivering  orders,  he  would 
wheel  it  home  laden  with  mysterious  coats  and  boots,  which  he 
vainly  offered  Matt  on  easy  terms.  At  irregular  intervals,  too, 
he  fell  ill,  a  note  from  his  mother  arriving  in  his  handwriting 
differently  sloped,  and  then  Matt  was  reduced  to  trundling  the 
barrow  himself,  while  the  fat  facetious  man,  summoned  from 
the  workroom  over  the  shop,  or  from  his  other  establishment 
in  the  New  Cut,  where  his  wiry  vixen  of  a  wife  had  her  head- 
quarters, replaced  him  behind  the  counter.  Matt  had  also  spells 
of  mechanical  occupation  in  the  workshop.  He  not  only  stuffed 
the  skins  (which  came  from  abroad),  but  arranged  baskets  of 
wax-fruit  (which  were  bought  ready-made)  and  paper  flowers 
and  cases  of  shells  with  moss  and  sea-weeds  and  pyramids  of 
pebbles.  And  he  made  mock  red  coral  out  of  balls  of  brown 
paper,  dipped  into  a  hot  composition  of  beeswax  and  rosin, 


DEFEAT  267 

and  stuck  it  on  wooden  stands  with  many-bued  shells  variegat- 
ing it,  and  preserved  insects  creeping  prettily  over  it ;  likewise 
he  manufactured  wax -flowers  to  replace  breakages;  hollow 
frauds,  mere  wax  shells  pounced  with  dry  colors,  or  mixed 
originally  with  coloring  matter,  yellow  ochre  making  apples, 
and  lake  lending  transparency  to  cherries,  or  uniting  with  Prus- 
sian blue  to  furnish  the  florid  richness  of  purple  grapes. 

But  though — as  ever — his  taskwork  hovered  oddly  about 
the  purlieus  of  Art,  or  the  vaults  of  its  Temple,  and  though 
his  eighteen  shillings  a  week  enabled  him  to  send  nine  shillings 
a  week  home,  in  monthly  instalments,  to  Abner  Preep,  still  he 
was  not  happy.  The  difficulties  with  the  errand-boy ;  the  fat 
facetiousness  of  Ground  Junior;  the  menial  trundling  of  the  bar- 
row, with  the  dread  of  some  day  meeting  "  Bubbles,"  or  other 
fellows  from  Grainger's,  to  say  nothing  of  Cornpepper,  Gurney, 
Rapper,  or  the  Old  Gentleman  ;  the  retail  trade  over  the  counter, 
the  biweekly  task  of  cleaning  all  the  shades  with  a  chamois 
leather — all  this,  combined  with  the  sense  of  wasted  months, 
galled  and  fretted  him.  He  was  working  at  his  Academy  pict- 
ure now — in  accordance  with  his  promise  to  Herbert — but  his 
hours  being  from  eight  to  eight,  Sunday  was  his  only  leisure 
time,  and  he  was  paradoxically  grateful  for  the  ancient  Oriental 
ordinance  which  made  the  godless  British  bird-stuffer  close  his 
shop  once  a  week  and  thus  enable  him  to  work.  He  was  able 
to  do  some  of  the  preliminary  sketching-out  in  the  early  morn- 
ing and  at  night ;  but  there  was  no  light  for  the  real  work, 
nor  was  there  much  light  in  his  back  bedroom,  even  at  noon  on 
Sundays. 

He  had  not  changed  his  address,  though  he  had  to  walk 
three  miles  to  and  from  his  work ;  kept  to  his  old  lodging  by 
habit  and  the  trust  that  his  landlady — an  artist's  mother — would 
not  hastily  throw  him  upon  the  streets.  The  subject  of  his 
picture  had  grown  upon  him  from  his  daily  occupation;  the 
simulated  bird -life  around  him  moved  him  at  moments  to 
thoughts  of  the  joyous  winged  creatures  butchered  to  make  a 
parlor  ornament.  He  could  not  agree  with  Ground  Senior 
that  they  were  happier  stuffed.  And  then,  too,  the  pathos  of 
prisoned  birds  would  overwhelm  him,  exiled  from  their  natural 


268  THE    MASTER 

woodland  home,  and  set  to  peck  endlessly  at  wires.  His  own 
lot  and  theirs  became  subtly  interlinked,  and  his  imagination, 
turning  from  the  sordid  prose  of  the  actual  world  in  which  he 
found  himself,  brooded  on  visions  of  poetry  and  idyllic  happi- 
ness, and  so,  instead  of  selecting  from  reality  that  which  was 
beautiful  in  it,  instead  of  following  Cornpepper's  theories,  or 
his  own  theories,  or  anybody's  theories,  he  found  himself  irre- 
sistibly and  instinctively  seized  and  possessed  by  a  subject  and  a 
mode  of  treatment  uncompromisingly  imaginative — "  The  Para- 
dise of  the  Birds,"  a  beautiful  wood,  suffused  with  a  magic 
sunlight,  in  which  freed  birds  of  many  species  should  flutter 
blithely  around  a  divine  female  figure  with  a  wondrous  radiance 
of  love  and  joy  upon  her  welcoming  face,  and  at  her  feet  a 
beautiful  boy  playing  upon  an  oaten  pipe.  There  should  be 
an  undertone  of  tender  pathos — the  pathos  of  birds — but  light 
and  joy  were  to  be  the  essence  of  this  harmony  of  lovely  forms 
and  colors;  all  the  painter's  semi-unconscious  yearning  for  hap- 
piness, all  his  revolt  against  his  narrow,  squalid  lot,  his  secret, 
resentful  sense  of  the  high  place  denied  him  at  the  banquet  of 
life,  reflecting  themselves,  inverted,  in  the  mirror  of  his  art. 
And  though  the  sunlight  and  atmosphere  should  be  real  enough 
to  satisfy  the  Cornpepper  faction,  yet  over  all  he  would  put 
something  of  Erie-Smith's  glamour : — 

"The  gleam, 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream." 


For  the  paradise  Matt  drew  on  his  recollections  and  old 
sketches  of  Acadia,  supplemented  by  a  few  water-color  studies 
made  in  Epping  Forest,  which  was  within  difficult  walking  dis- 
tance of  the  bird-shop,  from  which,  of  course,  he  got  his  birds ; 
the  divine  female  figure  was  based  upon  his  first  study  from 
the  nude  at  Grainger's,  which  he  still  possessed,  though  he 
now  gave  the  woman  the  normal  allowance  of  toes ;  while  by 
the  aid  of  coppers  he  bribed  the  snub-nosed  apprentice  with  his 
penny  whistle  to  sit  for  the  cherub  with  the  oaten  reed.  And 
thus  was  Nature  transfigured  to  Art.  But  as  Eden  to  Epping, 


DEFEAT  269 

so  was  Matt's  mental  conception  of  the  picture  to  the  real 
picture. 

From  dawn  to  sunset  Matt  painted  tirelessly,  and  with  many 
patient  effacernents  and  substitutions  of  passages,  during  his  one 
working  -  day,  convinced  that  the  Academy  was  now  his  only 
avenue  to  recognition  ;  and  as  sending-in  day  drew  nearer,  and 
the  precious  light  was  born  earlier,  he  was  able  to  snatch  an 
hour  or  two  every  morning  before  setting  out  for  Stepney. 
Towards  the  end  the  need  of  time  drove  him  to  the  omnibus. 

Nor  was  it  only  the  need  of  time.  Of  late  a  strange  languor 
had  grown  upon  him,  against  which  he  was  incessantly  bat- 
tling. The  image  in  his  strip  of  glass  frightened  him  ;  his  face 
was  white,  his  once  sturdy  frame  thin,  and  so  feeble  was  he 
become  that  the  three-mile  walk,  which  had  been  rather  a  pleas- 
ure than  an  inconvenience,  was  now  a  weary,  endless  drag. 
He  had  bilious  headaches.  But  he  toiled  on  at  his  picture, 
finding  in  the  fairyland  of  imagination  consolation  for  exist- 
ence, and  in  the  anxieties  and  agonies  of  artistic  travail  an 
antidote  to  the  agonies  and  anxieties  of  the  daily  grind.  "The 
Paradise  of  the  Birds,"  though  he  was  conscious  it  did  not 
equal  his  conception,  still  seemed  to  him  far  superior  to  the 
ordinary  Academy  picture ;  it  could  not  fail  to  redeem  him 
from  his  <own  Inferno,  reveal  him  to  the  world,  make  him  an 
honored  guest  in  artistic  coteries,  and  give  him  all  the  day  for 
Art.  Through  the  sordid  life  of  Stepney  and  Whitechapel  he 
moved,  sustained  by  an  inner  vision  of  beauty  and  victory,  and 
it  was  not  till  he  had  surreptitiously  wheeled  his  picture  to 
Burlington  House  in  the  bird-stuffer's  barrow,  at  the  price  of 
a  reprimand  for  idling  about,  that  his  will-power  gave  way,  and 
he  realized  that  he  was  but  a  limp  shadow.  Hope  kept  him  on 
his  feet  a  little  longer,  but  the  terrifying  symptoms  developed 
rapidly,  and  at  last  even  Ground  Junior  perceived  his  condition, 
and  allowed  him  a  morning's  leave  to  attend  a  hospital.  For 
two  hours  and  a  half  he  waited  on  one  of  the  bare  benches  of 
a  cheerless,  dim-lit  anteroom  amid  a  grimy  crowd  of  invalids, 
ranging  from  decrepit,  bandaged  old  men  to  wan -faced  chil- 
dren, all  coughing  and  groaning  and  conversing  fatuously,  and 
ostentatiously  comparing  complaints,  and  finally  fading  away 


270  THE    MASTER 

tediously  two  by  two  into  the  presence  of  the  physician.  At 
last  his  own  turn  came,  announced  by  the  sharp  ting  of  a  hand- 
bell;  and,  preceded  by  a  rheumy- eyed  stone-mason,  he  passed 
through  the  polished,  awe-inspiring  portal,  and  found  himself 
in  the  presence  of  an  austere  gentleman  with  frosty  side- 
whiskers. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  my  man  ?"  the  doctor  inquired 
in  low  tones  of  the  stone-mason. 

"  All  outer  sorts,"  replied  the  stone-mason. 

"  Ah !  Any  special  pain  anywhere  ?"  he  went  on,  in  the 
same  dulcet  accents. 

"  Eh  ?"  asked  the  stone  -  mason,  hearing  imperfectly  in  his 
fluster. 

The  doctor  shouted  in  a  mighty  yell :  "  Any  special  pain  any- 
where ?" 

The  appalled  stone-mason  admitted  to  a  stitch  in  the  side, 
and  the  doctor  continued  his  interrogative  thunders.  He  had 
only  two  conversational  methods — the  piano  and  the  fortissimo. 

Matt,  trembling,  awaited  his  succession  to  the  criminal  dock, 
and,  straining  his  ears  when  the  trying  moment  came,  was  fort- 
unate enough  to  secure  the  piano  treatment. 

"Your  blood  is  poisoned,"  was  the  great  man's  verdict. 
"  This  is  the  third  case  I  have  had  from  bird-stuffing  establish- 
ments. When  you  clean  the  glass  shades  and  breathe  on  the 
insides  you  imbibe  the  arsenical  and  other  foul  gases  that  are 
given  off  by  the  skins  and  collect  inside  the  air-tight  glasses. 
You  will  take  the  medicine  three  times  a  day,  but  it  won't  do 
you  any  good  if  you  go  on  living  in  that  atmosphere.  You 
want  sea-air.  You  ought  to  try  and  get  into  the  country,  and 
have  a  little  holiday." 

And  Matt  Strang,  dazed,  but  smiling  grimly,  crawled  down 
into  the  dispensary  and  handed  in  his  prescription,  and  tot- 
tered back  to  the  bird-shop  with  a  big  bottle  of  yellow  fluid  in 
his  hand.  He  would  not  let  himself  think ;  there  was  only  one 
point  of  light — his  Academy  picture — and  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
on  that  as  on  a  star. 

A  few  days  later  the  notice  of  rejection  arrived,  and  the  thin, 
sickly  faced  young  man,  being  out  with  orders,  surreptitiously 


DEFEAT  271 

wheeled  "  The  Paradise  of  the  Birds  "  home  on  his  barrow,  and 
discounted  the  renewed  wrath  of  his  employer  by  giving  a 
week's  notice.  He  did  his  work  as  usual  that  afternoon,  smil- 
ing in  uneasy  defiance  at  the  oddly  intrusive  thought  that  the 
Cobequid  folks  would  have  said  it  was  all  through  his  painting 
on  Sundays,  yet  not  without  a  shred  of  their  superstition.  But 
when  he  got  home  he  fell  helplessly  on  his  little  iron  bed,  and 
wept  like  a  child. 

He  was  beaten,  broken,  shattered  in  body  and  soul.  He  had 
fought  and  lost. 

And  as  an  ailing  child  turns  yearningly  to  its  mother,  so 
his  heart  yearned  to  his  native  land  in  a  great  surge  of  home- 
sickness. Here  the  narrow  labyrinthine  streets  were  muddy 
with  spring  rains,  but  there  the  snow  would  still  be  on  the 
fields  and  forests,  white  and  pure  and  beautiful  under  the  daz- 
zling blue  sky.  Oh,  the  keen,  tingling  cold,  the  large  embrace 
of  the  salt  breezes,  the  joy  of  skating  over  the  frozen  flats  !  His 
poor  poisoned  blood  glowed  at  the  thought.  Here  he  was  ill 
and  lonely,  there  he  would  be  among  loving  faces.  Poor 
Billy  !  How  the  boy  must  long  for  him  !  It  would  be  humili- 
ating to  return  a  failure,  but  there  would  be  none  to  reproach 
him,  and  his  own  pride  was  gone,  vanished  with  his  physical 
strength.  But  how  to  get  back  ?  He  was  too  ill  to  go  before 
the  mast,  too  impoverished  to  command  even  the  steerage. 
He  had  unfortunately  sent  thirty-six  shillings  home  just  before 
the  rejection  of  his  picture,  and  he  was  again  in  arrears  of  rent, 
through  the  extra  expense  of  the  canvas  and  the  compulsory 
gilt  frame.  Mrs.  Lipchild  was  induced  by  the  splendor  of  the 
frame  to  take  "  The  Paradise  of  the  Birds  "  in  payment  for  the 
three  weeks  (lunar),  and  the  "carver  and  gilder,  over -mantel 
and  picture-frame  maker  "  in  Red  Lion  Street,  who  had  made 
the  frame,  purchased  all  his  remaining  pictures  and  school- 
studies  for  a  sovereign  down. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  borrow.  So  feeble  was  his 
whole  being  that  the  first  suggestion  of  this  ignominy  carried  no 
sting.  He  thought  first  of  Herbert,  and  brushing  his  garments 
to  a  threadbare  specklessness,  inquired  of  his  club  door-keeper, 
who  informed  him  curtly  that  Mr.  Strang  was  abroad.  This 


272  THE    MASTER 

was  as  be  expected,  but  he  was  disappointed.  Tarmigan  was 
his  only  other  friend,  but  him  he  had  lost  sight  of  since  Christ- 
mas, and  though  he  had  in  these  hours  of  weakness  abandoned 
the  hope  of  Art,  he  had  still  a  vague  paradoxical  aversion  from 
applying  to  a  man  whose  artistic  ideas  he  did  not  share,  and 
who  might  hereafter  have  a  sort  of  right  to  resent  his  departure 
from  them.  Besides,  Tarmigan  was  poor,  was  unsuccessful. 
In  his  desperation  he  thought  of  Madame  Strang,  and  though, 
in  the  course  of  their  chat  that  night  at  the  Students'  Club, 
Herbert  had  told  him  the  Old  Gentleman  had  given  her  an 
awful  wigging,  and  she  had  renewed  her  promise  to  close 
her  door  in  the  culprit's  face,  yet  Matt  nerved  himself  to  risk 
insult.  So,  spying  the  shop  from  a  sheltered  doorway  across 
the  street,  he  hung  about  till  the  Vandyke  beard  and  the  vel- 
vet jacket  had  issued  and  disappeared  round  a  corner,  then  he 
rang  the  bell  of  the  side  door,  and  to  his  joy  Madame  herself 
opened  it. 

"  My  poor  boy  !     What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  she  cried. 

The  unexpected  sympathy  of  her  words  clouded  the  lonely 
young  man's  gaze  with  hot  tears ;  he  staggered  into  the  pas- 
sage, and  Madame,  growing  pale  herself,  took  him  by  the  arm 
and  helped  him  into  the  sitting-room,  and  in  her  agitation 
poured  him  out  a  whole  tumblerful  of  brandy,  which  fortunately 
he  only  sipped. 

A  little  recovered,  he  explained — improving  his  pallid  com- 
plexion with  blushes  when  he  came  to  the  point — that  he  was 
returning  to  Nova  Scotia,  as  the  doctor  had  ordered  him  a  sea- 
voyage,  and  he  wanted  four  or  five  pounds  till  he  got  to  the 
other  side,  when  he  would  easily  be  able  to  repay  the  loan. 

"  Certainly,  my  poor  boy,  certainly,"  said  Madame.  "  The 
idea  of  clever  people  having  no  money,  and  people  like  me 
having  plenty." 

She  ran  up -stairs,  and  returned  with  ten  of  the  sovereigns, 
that  she  hoarded — literally — in  her  stocking. 

But  Matt  would  not  take  more  than  five.  He  felt  it  foolish 
to  burden  himself  with  superfluous  temptations. 

"  I  knew  you  weren't  a  rogue,"  cried  Madame,  in  thoughtless 
triumph.  The  sentiment  reminding  her  of  the  interrogative 


MATT    RECEIVES    SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES  278 

eyebrows,  she  added,  hastily,  "  Of  course,  you  won't  tell  ray 
husband.  Not  that  he  would  mind,  of  course,  for  I  am  help- 
ing you  to  leave  the  country.  But  oh,  how  I  wish  you  had 
come  to  me  instead  of  to  Herbert !  The  dear  boy  has  such  hard 
work  and  so  few  pleasures,  and  his  allowance  is  so  small  that 
his  father  was  naturally  annoyed  to  think  of  your  making  the 
poor  boy  stint  himself.  Of  course,  I  made  it  up  to  Herbert 
unbeknown  to  his  father,  who  would  only  return  him  a  little 
of  the  money  you  had  borrowed.  Promise  me  you  will  not  apply 
to  Herbert  again.  You  know  it  is  so  expensive  living  in  Paris  !" 

"  I  promise,"  Matt  murmured,  hardly  conscious  of  what  Ma- 
dame was  saying,  his  soul  already  in  Nova  Scotia,  and  dis- 
solved in  tenderness  and  gratitude.  The  prospect  of  leaving 
London  was  as  delightful  as  the  prospect  of  coming  to  it  had 
been  not  fifteen  months  ago. 

Ere  he  bade  her  farewell  Madame  made  him  promise  to  come 
and  see  her  when  he  was  back  in  London  again,  hoped  the  voy- 
age would  do  him  good,  and  scolded  him  for  never  having 
shown  her  his  pictures. 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  be  a  great  artist,"  she  said,  smiling  win- 
somely.  "  You  have  the  artistic  hand.  God  bless  you." 

The  young  man  listened  unmoved ;  he  was  hoping  the  ice 
would  bear  till  he  arrived  in  Cobequid  Village. 

And  so,  with  all  his  worldly  goods,  including  the  unsaleable 
"Angelus,"  packed  in  the  smallest  of  satchels,  Matt  Strang 
sailed  back  across  the  Atlantic,  the  blood  clogged  in  his  veins, 
an  unregarded  unit  of  the  countless  myriads  that  London  has 
allured  and  scorched. 


CHAPTER  X 

MATT    RECEIVES    SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES 

BUT  the  prodigal  son  was  not  fated  to  see  any  of  his  relatives 
immediately  upon  his  return  to  his  native  land  except  his  moth- 
er, and  this  was  scarcely  his  mother,  this  pale  creature  with  eyes 
vacant  of  all  save  tears,  who  babbled  to  him,  with  heart-rending 

18 


274 


THE    MASTER 


verbal  repetitions,  of  Revelation  and  the  Beast,  not  even  mistak- 
ing him  for  his  dead  father.  She  had  survived  her  life. 

From  Halifax  Matt  did  not  proceed  forthwith  to  Cobequid 
Village,  joining,  instead,  a  crew  of  mackerel-fishers,  in  the  hope 
of  earning  enough  to  repay  Madame  Strang  immediately ;  for 
his  soul,  reinvigorated  by  the  sea-breezes  of  the  voyage  and  the 
skies  of  his  childhood,  had  returned  to  its  healthy  repugnance 
to  debt,  and  was  ashamed  of  its  lapse. 

It  was  a  mixed  company  that  he  sailed  away  with — the  bulk 
decent  Nova  Scotians,  of  old  fisher  stock,  but  some  rougher  and 
more  casual,  and  a  few — though  these  were  harmless  enough — 
despised  "  Portigees."  The  fishing  was  not  devoid  of  danger. 
The  men  had  to  row  out  from  the  schooner  in  twos  or  threes  to 
tend  the  nets  spread  on  the  mackerel  banks,  and  sometimes  a 
fog  would  come  on  and  ingulf  the  ship,  and  the  fishers  with 
their  mocking  freight  would  row  for  hours  and  hours,  and  at 
times  for  days  and  days,  on  the  ghostly  sea  in  search  of  their 
floating  home.  And  sometimes  they,  too,  would  be  swallowed 
up  in  the  mystery  of  sea  and  fog,  and  wives  and  mothers,  run- 
ning anxiously  to  the  wharf  to  meet  them,  would  learn  that  an 
older  fisher  had  netted  his  prey. 

To  Matt  the  hard  work  and  the  peril  were  alike  welcome  ;  the 
very  mists  were  poetry  after  the  yellow  charnel-house  vapors  of 
London,  which  now  lay  behind  him  like  a  nightmare,  and  with 
it  his  dream  of  Art.  His  soul  had  swung  round  violently.  In 
the  strain  of  hauling  up  the  nets  in  the  misty  moonlight,  in  the 
silence  of  sea  and  sky  and  night,  he  found  repose  from  his  mor- 
bid craving  to  reproduce  this  mighty  Nature,  which  stretched 
away  all  around  him  in  large,  sane  serenity,  as  indifferent  to  the 
puny  images  of  Art  as  the  waste  of  waters  to  the  little  dory 
rocking  on  its  bosom.  And  the  rugged  simplicity  of  his  briny, 
horny-handed  mates  was  equally  restful  after  the  garish  brilliance 
of  the  young  artists  about  town ;  after  all,  his  heart  was  with 
homely  folk,  went  out  to  sea-folk ;  he  was  his  father's  son  and 
the  brother  of  all  those  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  and  do 
business  in  the  great  waters.  How  like  a  child's  cackle  Corn- 
pepper's  epigrams  sounded  across  the  silence  of  the  lonely  deep  ! 
Under  the  hushed  stars,  touching  the  infinite  spaces  with  awful 


MATT    RECEIVES    SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES  275 

beauty,  all  these  feverish  figures  of  the  smoking-room  showed 
like  fretful  midges. 

When  the-  cruise  was  over,  and  the  spoil  had  been  unloaded 
and  sold  on  the  fishy  wharf,  or  steeped  in  brine  and  packed  in 
the  vats,  Matt  was  able  to  send  ten  dollars  to  England,  besides 
keeping  up  his  usual  allowance  to  Cobequid  Village  and  main- 
taining himself — a  triple  task  which  weighed  heavily  upon  his 
brain,  and  gave  him  frequent  moments  of  corroding,  nervous  ap- 
prehension. For  his  health  was  only  partially  re-established,  and 
his  correspondence  with  Cobequid  Village  was  not  reassuring. 
His  brothers  and  sisters  were  growing  up  without  finding  much 
to  do ;  Billy  moped  a  great  deal,  and  though  he  thanked  his 
brother  for  the  engraving  of  the  "  Angelus,"  which  Matt  sent 
him,  he  intimated  that  he  would  have  been  better  pleased  had 
Matt  spent  his  money  on  books  of  travel  and  adventure  for  him. 
And  Abner  wrote,  with  pathetic  facetiousness,  that  he  was  "  tol- 
erable pleased  "  that  his  brother-in-law  had  not  come  home,  as 
they  would  have  been  "  mighty  squeezed  "  to  put  him  up,  for, 
what  with  the  increase  of  Abner's  own  progeny  and  the  growth 
of  the  Strangs,  even  the  best  room  with  the  cane  chairs  had  long 
since  been  turned  into  a  bedroom,  though  it  could  still  be  re- 
stored to  its  pristine  magnificence  on  state  occasions. 

From  the  neighboring  fishing-ground  Matt  gravitated  back  to 
Halifax.  His  thoughts,  divorced  from  Art,  centred  on  monev. 
His  artistic  fibre  was  coarser  now  than  in  those  days  of  almost 
religious  enthusiasm  for  Art.  He  had  an  idea  of  opening  a 
drawing-school  and  becoming  the  local  "  Grainger,"  but  the  ini- 
tial funds  were  to  seek.  He  got  a  few  drawing-lessons,  but  the 
stupidity  of  his  pupils  was  maddening,  and  his  communion  with 
their  parents  fretted  him  after  the  larger  mind  of  London.  He 
feared  he  would  have  to  take  to  the  road  again  in  search  of  sit- 
ters, and  the  prospect  of  weary  tramps  in  quest  of  patronizing 
store-keepers  and  farmers  was  not  alluring,  even  though  that  fine 
squeamish  horror  at  the  idea  of  Art  to  order  had  been  knocked 
out  of  him.  He  was  saved  from  the  tramping  by  becoming  as- 
sistant in  a  photographic  caravan,  which  toured  the  country, 
leaving  in  each  village  a  trail  of  attitudinizing  inhabitants 
mounted  and  framed  ;  in  the  course  of  which  campaign,  by  a 


276  THE    MASTER 

pleasanter  stroke  of  fortune,  he  painted  the  portraits  of  a  minis- 
ter of  fisheries  and  of  the  cook  he  had  married,  and  so  gained 
enough  money  to  quit  the  caravan  and  start  a  carriage-painting 
shop  in  the  village  where  the  happy  couple  had  their  country 
home.  As  the  poorest  inhabitants  were  carriage -folk  —  for 
horses  and  oats  and  hay  were  cheap,  and  carriage  taxes  un- 
known— Matt  Strang,  with  a  commercial  instinct  sharpened  and 
an  artistic  interest  blunted  by  miseries,  calculated  to  do  well. 
His  sign-board,  executed  by  his  own  hand,  ran  : 


CARRIAGES    PAINTED, 

ALSO  SLEIGHS. 

HOUSE  DECORATING,  PORTRAITS,  AND 
DRAWING-LESSONS. 


The  shop  was  a  success.  Ere  the  summer  waned  many  of 
the  villagers  had  thei-r  idle  sleighs  brilliantly  illumined,  and  when 
winter  came  their  faded  carriages  were  handed  over  to  Matt  to 
be  berouged  or  otherwise  beautified.  Each  man  had  his  equipage 
decorated  after  his  own  taste  or  whim,  though  he  always  began 
by  leaving  it  entirely  to  the  artist.  One  would  order  lemon- 
yellow  underworks,  with  vermilion  stripes  and  an  olive -green 
body,  for  another  the  ideal  of  beauty  lay  in  lake  and  russet-and- 
green,  while  the  fancy  of  a  third  would  turn  lightly  to  Prussian 
blue  and  gold  stripes  ;  and  Matt,  devoid  now  of  artistic  interest 
and  thus  of  artistic  irritability,  faithfully  obeyed  the  behests  of 
his  employers,  and  filled  the  leafy  streets  with  a  riotous  motley 
of  perambulating  color.  The  little  village  was  pranked  and  re- 
juvenated. It  wore  a  sempiternally  festive  air.  The  sign-boards 
were  spick-and-span,  the  house  fronts  fresh  and  bright,  the  ve- 
hicles gayly  a-glitter,  the  glass  windows  of  the  stores  black  with 
self-laudatory  lettering  by  day,  while  at  night  the  buff  store- 
blinds  repeated  the  brag ;  and  over  all  the  village  was  a  sense 
of  "  wet  paint."  Thus  did  the  artist  throw  a  glamour  over  life, 
and  touch  the  sleeping  souls  of  his  fellows  to  livelier  issues, 


MATT    RECEIVES    SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES  277 

though  his  ow-a  interest  in  Art  was  numb.  But  prices  were 
small,  and  paid  mainly  in  kind,  and  when  once  the  place  was 
transmogrified  there  was  nothing  further  to  be  done,  the  latter 
items  of  his  sign-board  evoking  no  response.  So  Matt  shifted 
his  ensign  to  Starsborough,  a  ship-building  village  on  the  coast, 
where  he  found  new  scope  for  his  versatile  craftsmanship,  as 
witness  two  new  items  added  to  his  painted  prospectus : — 

FIGURE-HEADS  CARVED. 
SHIP  DECORATING. 

He  got  leave  to  set  up  in  the  ship-yard,  speculated  in  a  set  of 
carving-tools,  and  supplied  the  prows  of  the  ships  with  those 
picturesque  wooden  persons  whose  uselessness  is  of  the  essence 
of  Art.  He  occupied  a  corner  in  the  calker's  shop,  reeking 
with  tarry  odors,  and  worked  hemmed  in  by  the  oakum-pickers, 
who  relieved  the  tedium  of  toil  by  smoking  and  singing  lewd 
songs.  One  of  his  works,  a  Turkish  lady  eight  feet  high,  to 
get  which  done  in  time  cost  him  much  sweat  and  sacrifice  of 
other  work,  pleased  the  ship-builder  so  vastly  that  he  gave  Matt 
the  contract — in  preference  to  all  the  other  candidates  who  sent 
in  estimates — for  painting  his  next  ship  within  and  without. 
The  delighted  young  man  saw  his  way  to  speedy  competence, 
the  long-torpid  thought  of  Art  began  to  stir  drowsily,  only  it 
was  Paris  that  now  gleamed  fitfully  in  the  background  of  his 
day-dreams.  He  talked  over  the  decorations  with  the  ship- 
builder, and  agreed  to  pay  the  men  from  week  to  week,  and  to 
supply  the  tools,  paints,  and  gold-leaf  till  the  job  was  completed, 
when  his  employer  undertook  to  pay  him  the  sum  agreed  upon 
in  actual  coin.  As  Matt  was  able  to  get  the  materials  from  a 
store  on  three  months'  credit,  and  to  pay  his  men  with  orders 
on  the  same  all-embracing  store  on  the  same  terms,  and  the  job 
would  be  finished  in  less  than  three  months,  the  arrangement 
promised  to  be  very  profitable.  Alas !  it  proved  the  crash  and 
break-down  of  all  his  new  prosperity.  In  the  middle^  of  the 
work  the  ship-builder  failed  heavily,  and  Matt  found  himself  on 
the  point  of  bankruptcy  too,  for,  though  he  sent  in  his  claim 
against  the  estate,  there  seemed  scant  chance  of  his  obtaining 


278  THE    MASTER 

anything.  Even  the  Turkish  woman  had  not  been  paid  for, 
Matt  having  consented  to  receive  her  price  with  the  rest  of  the 
money,  for  the  sake  of  getting  silver  in  lieu  of  goods.  His  ac- 
count with  the  store-keeper  had  run  up  to  $250.  He  could  not 
see  how  to  meet  his  bills  ;  the  weeks  without  other  work  had 
exhausted  his  savings ;  there  was  even  about  a  fourth  of  his 
debt  still  to  be  sent  to  Madame  Strang.  He  got  other  little  jobs, 
but  the  great  shipwright's  failure  had  reduced  Starsborough  to 
stagnation.  The  time  of  payment  drew  nigh.  After  sleepless 
nights  of  anguish  he  went  to  the  store-keeper  and  told  him  he 
could  not  pay.  The  man  received  him  sympathetically,  said  he 
had  been  expecting  the  confession,  and  consented  to  give  him  a 
little  time ;  so  Matt  broke  up  his  establishment,  and  journeyed 
by  train  and  packet  to  another  village  nearer  Halifax,  and  set 
up  his  sign-board  afresh.  A  job  took  him  to  the  capital,  and  in 
the  streets  he  ran  across  his  Starsborough  creditor,  who  was 
come  up  to  order  har.dware,  and  who,  apparently  delighted  to  see 
him,  invited  him  to  breakfast  with  him  at  his  hotel  next  morning. 
Always  glad  to  save  a  meal,  and  rejoiced  to  find  his  creditor  so 
genial  and  debonair,  Matt  tramped  into  town  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning  and  repaired  to  the  hotel.  But  there  was  no  break- 
fast for  him.  A  sheriff's  officer  awaited  him  instead,  and  ar- 
rested him  for  debt.  He  had  been  the  victim  of  a  subterfuge, 
his  creditor  fearing  from  his  migratory  movements  that  he  was 
about  to  run  off  to  the  States. 

And  so  Matt  was  clapped  into  the  prison  to  await  his  trial, 
and  became  one  of  the  broken-down  band  that  inhabited  its 
spacious  ward,  promenaded  the  long  whitewashed  corridor  on 
which  the  lavatory  gave,  and  slept  on  the  iron  beds  ranged 
against  the  wall.  Every  morning  the  bedclothes  were  stripped 
off  and  piled  in  the  empty  cells  to  give  the  ward  a  more  habi- 
table air.  In  this  dreary  bed  and  sitting  room  Matt  spent  days 
of  mental  agony,  though  physically  he  fared  better  than  under 
his  own  parsimonious  regime.  But  the  sense  of  degradation 
outweighed  all  else.  He  felt  he  could  never  look  his  fellow-men 
in  the  face  again.  His  character  was  gone ;  his  ambitions  had 
received  their  death-blow — nay,  his  very  business  career  in  his 
native  land  was  at  an  end.  The  stigma  would  always  soil  his 


MATT    RECEIVES    SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES  279 

future.  All  the  long  travail  and  aspiration  had  ended  at  what  a 
goal !  He  could  not  understand  the  careless  merriment  of  his 

O 

fellow-prisoners,  who  fleeted  the  time  with  cards,  which  they 
played  for  love.  There  was  a  negro  among  them  who  was  the 
whetstone  of  their  wit,  and  a  Frenchman  who  varied  his  tearful 
narrative  of  the  misfortune  that  had  brought  him  low,  with  ven- 
triloquial  performances  and  anecdotes  of  self-made  Yankee  mill- 
ionaires. In  this  gesticulating  little  man  Matt  recognized  with 
surprise  and  shamefacedness  his  ancient  fractious  subordinate 
in  the  Halifax  furniture  shop,  who  had  taken  him  to  his  bosom 
after  due  alcohol,  but  he  was  glad  to  find  his  unconscious  fellow 
made  no  advances.  At  moments  he  forced  himself  to  look  for 
the  comic  Bohemian  side  of  the  situation,  to  imagine  Cornpep- 
per's  superiority  to  a  debtors'  prison,  the  artist  sublime  amid 
the  ruins  of  his  credit,  snorting  disdain  for  the  absurd  institu- 
tions of  the  bourgeois ;  but  neither  this  nor  philosophy  availed 
to  shake  his  sense  of  shame.  He  summoned  the  infinite  to  his 
aid,  saw  himself  again  rocking  on  the  little  dory  between  sea 
and  sky,  and  asked  himself  what  anything  mattered  in  this  vast 
of  space  and  time.  But  these  excursions  of  the  intellect  left  in- 
stinct unmoved ;  from  childhood  the  word  "  jail "  had  been 
fraught  with  shuddering  associations  ;  they  could  not  be  argued 
away.  Strang's  aloofness  from  his  companions,  even  when  an  out- 
side friend  had  sent  in  liquor  or  dainties  to  one  of  them,  attracted 
the  notice  of  the  jailer,  a  kindly  man  in  a  cutaway  coat,  with 
only  an  official  cap  to  mark  his  calling.  He  talked  to  the  sullen, 
brooding  prisoner,  conceived  a  liking  for  him,  and  commissioned 
him  to  paint  his  portrait  for  ten  dollars,  supplying  the  materials 
himself  and  providing  a  temporary  easel.  The  darkness  that 
had  threatened  Matt's  reason,  if  not  his  life,  fled  before  this 
kindness  ;  the  days  before  the  trial  flew  by  almost  joyously,  and 
the  nights  were  rendered  more  tolerable  by  being  passed  alone 
on  a  plank  bed  in  one  of  the  criminal  cells,  whose  stout  doors, 
studded  with  iron  nails  and  furnished  with  little  gratings,  rarely 
held  anybody,  so  that  the  painter  easily  persuaded  his  patron  to 
allow  him  to  occupy  it. 

He  had  scarcely  set  up  his  easel  when  his  companions  clus- 
tered round,  and  the  Frenchman  burst  into  tears  of  emotion,  and 


280  THE    MASTER 

professed  that  he,  too — he  who  spoke  to  you — was  an  artist.  If 
only  some  one  could  see  the  creditor  who  had  thrown  him  into 
prison,  and  explain  to  him  that  his  victim  was  guiltless  of  all 
save  genius.  As  Matt  had  heard  all  this  before,  he  pursued  his 
work  unmoved,  affording  a  new  distraction  to  his  mates,  so  that 
the  negro's  life  became  endurable,  and  less  love  was  lost  at 
cards.  But  ere  the  second  sitting  was  over  the  Frenchman,  who 
had  studied  alternately  the  artist's  face  and  his  canvas,  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  joyous  recollection  and  fell  upon  his  neck, 
crying  that  he  had  at  last  found  again  the  comrade  of  his  soul. 
When  Matt  had  shaken  him  off,  he  drew  a  romantic  picture  of 
their  early  affection  and  collaboration  for  the  edification  of  the 
salon,  and  henceforth  took  a  proud  fraternal  interest  in  the 
progress  of  the  portrait. 

The  picture  turned  out  better  than  Matt  had  expected  ;  to  his 
own  surprise  he  found  himself  painting  more  vigorously  than 
ever ;  his  hand,  instead  of  having  lost  its  cunning,  seemed  to 
have  gained  by  the  rest.  The  jailer  was  well  content,  and  prom- 
ised two  and  a  half  dollars  over  and  above  the  price ;  but  as 
Matt  had  expressed  his  intention  of  sending  the  money  to  his 
creditor,  his  new  friend  held  over  the  surplus  till  he  should 
need  it  for  himself.  When  at  the  end  of  the  third  week  the 
trial  came  on,  and  Matt  "  swore  out,"  solemnly  asserting  abso- 
lute impecuniosity,  his  creditor,  mollified  by  the  ten  dollars,  and 
further  assuaged  by  the  sale  of  Matt's  effects,  from  his  tools  to 
his  sign-board,  did  not  press  the  counter-proof  of  competency, 
and  so  the  prisoner  was  set  at  liberty.  Sundry  other  bankrupts 
"swore  out"  at  the  same  time,  one  or  two,  who  had  boasted 
privily  of  their  means,  perjuring  themselves  back  to  freedom 
and  prosperity. 

Before  Matt  Strang  bade  farewell  to  the  jail,  the  Frenchman 
broke  off  a  ventriloquial  performance  to  beseech  him  with  tears 
in  the  name  of  the  camaraderie  of  Art,  and  for  the  sake  of  their 
ancient  affection,  now  that  he  was  going  forth  into  the  free  sun- 
shine, to  expostulate  with  that  cruel  creditor  and  plead  for  un- 
happy genius.  The  persecutor  —  Coble  by  name  —  would  not 
listen  to  his  own  appeals ;  but  if  a  brother-artist  would  speak  for 
him,  Coble's  better  nature — and  every  man  had  a  better  nature 


MATT    RECEIVES    SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES  281 

— might  be  touched,  and  the  skylark  might  soar  freely  again 
towards  the  blue  empyrean.  He  was  quite  honest — oh,  Heaven, 
yes !  He  did  not  really  possess  two  hundred  dollars,  as  Coble 
imagined,  but  he  could  not  account  for  them  before  the  court — 
one  would  see  why — though  privately  he  could  account  for  them 
in  a  way  that  would  satisfy  every  honest  man.  Some  emissary 
of  Satan  had  put  a  bill  into  his  hand  which  said,  "  For  a  hun- 
dred dollars  we  will  give  you  a  thousand  dollars  of  our  goods." 
He  had  hankered,  as  any  man  might,  after  those  thousand  dol- 
lars, and  sought  out  the  coiners  (for  all  the  world  knew  that  was 
their  formula),  and  paid  his  hundred  dollars.  But  the  bag  of 
coin  they  had  given  him  was  snatched  from  him  on  his  road 
back  by  one  of  their  agents.  Determined  not  to  be  outwitted, 
he  had  gone  again  and  invested  another  hundred  dollars,  and 
posted  the  parcel  to  himself  at  a  neighboring  post-office,  but  when 
it  arrived  he  had  found  only  a  brick-bat  inside.  He  had  been 
afraid  to  "  swear  out "  lest  Coble  should  maintain  he  had  the 
money,  and  thus  get  him  indicted  for  perjury. 

If  the  friend  of  his  youth  would  lay  these  facts  before  the 
cruel  Coble,  he  would  no  longer  languish  in  a  dungeon.  Would 
not  the  great  artist  promise  him  ? 

The  story  seemed  too  strange  to  be  false,  and  Matt  promised, 
at  the  risk  of  a  kiss,  to  recount  it  to  the  cruel  Coble,  though  he 
failed  to  see  how  it  proved  the  Frenchman's  honesty.  He  was, 
indeed,  not  sorry  to  have  something  definite  to  do,  for  with  the 
completion  of  the  jailer's  portrait  had  come  a  reaction,  and  he 
had  lapsed,  if  not  into  his  first  agony,  into  a  listless  apathy  that 
was  worse — the  nerveless,  purposeless  inertia  of  a  crushed  spirit. 
He  had  been  in  jail !  Not  even  a  miracle  could  erase  that  blot 
upon  his  name.  How  could  he  take  up  the  burden  of  life 
afresh  ?  Unless,  perhaps,  temporarily,  with  the  sole  object  of 
wiping  off  the  debt  which  he  owed  morally,  though  no  longer 
legally.  Anyway,  he  would  see  this  Mr.  Coble  ;  the  Frenchman 
seemed — curiously  enough — to  attach  value  to  life,  and  if  a  little 
bit  of  his  own  life  could  be  of  any  use  to  the  poor  weak  creat- 
ure, it  was  at  his  disposal.  Mr.  Coble,  too,  must  be  a  strange 
person  to  derive  any  satisfaction  from  keeping  the  pygmy  in 
prison  in  revenge  for  the  loss  of  a  few  hundred  dollars. 


282  %  THE    MASTER 

Money  !  Money  !  Money  !  How  it  had  cramped  and  crip- 
pled and  defiled  his  life  ! 

He  washed  himself  in  the  lavatory  before  leaving,  and  brushed 
his  clothes,  which  were  in  a  very  fair  condition.  He  was  startled 
to  find  how  many  gray  hairs  streaked  the  curly  locks  he  combed. 
"  It  won't  be  a  monochrome  much  longer,"  he  thought,  survey- 
ing his  mane  with  bitter  merriment. 

Outside  it  was  May,  but  he  was  not  brightened  by  the  great 
blue  sky  that  roofed  him  once  more.  The  bustle  of  life  sounded 
pleasantly  about  him,  but  he  slunk  through  the  busy  quarters  of 
the  town  with  hanging  head,  as  if  every  passer-by  could  read  his 
shame  in  his  face.  The  horrible  thought  struck  him  suddenly 
that  Coble  would  know  whence  he  came,  but  on  top  of  it  came 
the  happy  idea  of  explaining  he  had  only  gone  to  the  jail  to 
paint  the  portrait  of  an  official. 

The  journey  was  not  very  long,  though  the  road  was  muddy 
and  steep.  Mr.  Coble  lived  beyond  Citadel  Hill,  amid  whose 
grassy  expanse  a  path  wound  towards  the  more  scattered  por- 
tions of  the  town.  The  ice  was  quite  off  the  sunny  fields,  except 
in  the  shaded  parts  under  the  fences,  and  men  were  ploughing 
with  yokes  of  oxen,  though  here  and  there  heaped -up  piles  of 
snow  still  bordered  the  route,  which  they  flooded  with  slush  in 
their  gradual  deliquescence.  Mr.  Coble's  suburban  residence  was 
a  detached,  double-fronted  wooden  cottage,  barred  from  the  road 
by  a  neat,  white-painted  picket-fence.  There  were  attics  in  the 
roof,  which,  like  its  neighbors,  was  pitched,  with  broad  eaves,  for 
the  sliding  down  of  the  snow.  The  front  garden  had  been 
newly  dug  up  and  laid  out  to  receive  seed ;  there  was  a  dirty 
line  round  the  house,  showing  where  the  winter  embanking  had 
recently  been  removed. 

Matt  pushed  open  the  white  picket  garden-gate  and  walked  up 
the  gravel  path  towards  the  pillared  porch  ;  three  wooden  steps 
led  to  the  little  platform,  and  then  the  door  was  raised  one  step 
higher  to  prevent  snow  drifting  in  from  without. 

Matt  knocked.  He  heard  the  inner  door  open,  the  patter  of 
light  footsteps;  then  the  outer  door  swung  back,  and  a  girl — 
passably  pretty — appeared  in  the  little  entry  between  the  doors, 
which  were  thus  duplicated  against  the  frost. 


MATT    RECEIVES    SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES  283 

Matt  lifted  his  hat  and  inquired  for  Mr.  Coble.  He  had 
reverted  to  the  drawling  accents  of  the  colony,  though  not 
altogether  to  its  locutions. 

"  Oh,  pa's  down  at  the  store,"  answered  the  girl,  staring  at 
the  visitor. 

"  When  will  he  be  in  ?"  Matt  asked,  disappointed. 

"  Oh,  not  for  hours,"  said  Miss  Coble.  "  Is  it  anything  I 
can  tell  him  ?" 

"  No,  no  ;  I  don't  think  so,"  Matt  replied,  hesitatingly.  "  I 
had  better  call  again  this  evening." 

The  girl  lingered  silently  without  closing  the  door.  There 
was  a  perceptible  pause. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  at  last.     "  I  guess  you  had." 

He  raised  his  hat  again  and  went  down  the  gravel  path.  At 
the  garden-gate  it  struck  him  that  he  ought  to  have  inquired 
the  address  of  the  store  in  town,  and  so  saved  a  second  journey. 
He  turned  his  head,  and  saw  the  girl  still  at  the  door  looking 
after  him.  Then  it  seemed  funny  to  go  back. 

He  shut  the  gate  hastily  and  pursued  his  way  to  town  down 
the  muddy  road,  wondering  what  he  would  do  next,  and  how 
he  could  cope  with  life.  The  thought  of  the  Frenchman 
brought  up  the  memory  of  that  furniture  warehouse  in  which 
they  had  worked  together  in  the  days  of  his  boyish  dreams. 
He  bent  his  steps  towards  it  with  a  vague  thought  of  seeking 
work  there  again,  but  found  it  had  been  converted  into  an 
emporium  for  sewing-machines.  As  he  sauntered  aimlessly 
down  the  street,  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  lurid  picture  in  a 
store  window.  It  represented  a  shark  snapping  savagely  at  a 
diver  upon  the  bed  of  the  ocean.  He  smiled  at  the  crude 
composition,  which  reminded  him  of  his  own  early  works; 
then,  as  he  perceived  its  relation  to  the  stock-in-trade,  his  smile 
became  broader.  Sponge  was  the  staple,  and  a  gigantic  deli- 
cate sponge,  with  ornamental  spout -holes  and  fragments  of 
rock  adhering  realistically  to  it,  was  a  conspicuous  object 
amid  dandy-brushes  and  spoke-brushes  and  chamois-leather 
and  glass  cases  covering  rock-work.  There  were  little  sponges 
on  a  card,  and  Matt  started  violently  as  he  read,  "  Coble's 
five-cent  sponges."  The  mountain  had  come  to  Mahomet ! 


284  THE    MASTER 

He  walked  in,  crunching  over  a  debris  of  shells,  grit,  and  sand, 
and  inhaling  a  pungent  saline  odor.  A  veritable  mountain  of  a 
man  towered  over  him  with  beetling  brows  and  snowy  hair  and 
beard.  His  paunch  protruded  imposingly,  and  his  eyes  glittered. 

"Mr.  Coble?"  said  Matt,  inquiringly. 

"  That's  me,"  cried  the  mountain  of  flesh,  in  fierce  accents, 
as  if  defying  contradiction. 

Matt  felt  the  business  would  not  be  easy. 

"  I've  taken  the  liberty  of  coming  to  you — on  behalf  of — " 

"  Not  that  tarnation  Frenchman  ?"  shrieked  Mr.  Coble. 

Matt  reddened  uncomfortably. 

"  That's  the  fifth  man  he's  sent  me.  When  did  you  come 
out  of  prison  ?" 

"  I've  been  painting  the  jailer's  portrait,"  Matt  stammered, 
with  burning  cheeks.  "  And  I  used  to  know  the  poor  little 
man  years  ago,  and  he  says — " 

"  I  can't  listen  now.  Does  he  think  I've  no  business  to 
attend  to  ?" 

"He  didn't  send  me  here,  he  sent  me  to  your  house." 

"  Ho,  that's  a  new  dodge  *  But  I  reckon  he  told  you  the 
old  things,  eh  ? — that  I'm  a  stony-hearted  cuss,  that  I'd  sneak 
the  coppers  off  a  corpse's  eyes  or  squeeze  a  cent  till  the  eagle 
squeaked." 

"  No,  really,  he  didn't  tell  me  that,"  said  Matt. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  spare  the  old  man's  feelings.  I  know 
what  a  man  says  when  he  finds  you  won't  be  swindled.  He's 
the  everlastingest  old  dodger  that  ever  drummed  for  me.  His 
tricks  'ould  puzzle  a  Philadelphia  lawyer.  The  only  honest  bit 
of  work  he  ever  did  in  his  life  was  that  thar  pictur'  of  a  shark. 
That's  stunnin',  I  admit,  and  I'd  willingly  let  the  poor  devil 
out  of  the  cage  if  my  darter  warn't  so  bitter  agen  him.  There, 
that's  the  truth.  I  never  told  it  to  any  of  the  other  fellows, 
they  all  looked  such  moulty  jail-birds.  Say  now,  you  said  you 
were  a  painter,  ain't  that  a  good  pictur'  ?" 

Although  Mr.  Coble's  words  were  now  more  amiable,  his 
accent  was  still  fierce,  and  it  required  some  courage  on  Matt's 
part  to  reply  that  the  picture  was  pretty  good  in  a  manner 
that  betokened  that  it  was  pretty  bad. 


MATT    RECEIVES    SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES  285 

"  Ho,  two  of  a  trade !"  quoth  the  mountain  of  a  man. 

"The  shark  couldn't  be  like  that,"  Matt  explained,  mildly. 
"  He  has  to  turn  on  his  back  before  biting.  It  isn't  true  to 
life." 

"  Waal,"  said  Mr.  Coble,  in  irate  tones,  "  as  the  shark's  got 
nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  sponge  business,  and  the  divers 
ain't  in  no  sort  o'  danger  whatever  from  it,  I  don't  see  where 
truth  to  life  comes  in,  anyhow." 

"  Oh,  but  the  less  lies  you  tell  in  Art  the  better,"  urged  Matt. 
"  I'll  do  you  another  if  you  like." 

"  Ho,  that's  your  dodge,  is  it  ?" 

"  I'm  not  asking  anything  for  it,"  the  young  man  retorted, 
indignantly.  "  It  '11  be  a  return  for  your  listening  to  my 
appeal." 

Mr.  Coble  was  startled. 

"  Thunderation  !"  he  cried,  sharply.  "  You're  a  Christian. 
Step  outside,  and  we'll  liquor  up." 

The  invitation  was  uttered  so  fiercely  that  it  sounded  like  a 
command,  especially  as  the  Titan  stamped  three  times  with  his 
foot — only  his  way  of  signalling  to  his  subordinate,  Matt  found. 
In  the  nearest  bar,  which  happened  to  be  an  illicit  one,  ap- 
proached through  a  porch  at  the  back  of  a  temperance  hotel 
for  the  convenience  of  avowed  teetotalers,  the  man-mountain 
imparted  to  Matt  the  information  that  it  was  the  Frenchman's 
amorous  advances  that  had  imbittered  his  daughter.  "For  my 
part,"  he  said,  "  so  far  from  wantin'  to  keep  him  in  there  in 
clover,  I'd  like  to  lift  him  out  on  the  point  of  my  toe,  and  I'd 
make  him  vamoose  from  the  town  that  smart  you  couldn't  see 
his  heels  for  the  dust.  I'll  mention  it  to  Rosina  that  you've 
been  putting  in  a  good  word  for  the  skunk,  but  I  don't  think 
she'll  listen,  that's  a  fact." 

"  Oh,  but  I'm  sure  she  will,"  said  Matt.  "  She  looks  a  kind- 
hearted  young  lady." 

"  You  haven't  seen  her !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Coble,  fiercely. 

"  Yes ;  I  saw  her  this  afternoon,"  said  Matt. 

"Then  you've  seen  the  purtiest  gal  you'll  see  this  year.  Set 
'em  up  again.  This  old  rye's  whopping  good.  Always  rely  on 
a  temperance  hotel  for  good  whiskey.  And  as  my  gal  has  a 


286  THE    MASTER 

goodish  bit  of  money,"  pursued  the  old  man,  smacking  his  lips 
and  growing  communicative  without  losing  any  of  the  sternness 
of  his  accent,  "  you  can  understand  what  made  the  wretched 
little  froggy  roll  his  eyes  and  twist  his  mustache  at  her.  How 
he  found  it  out  will  be  a  mystery  to  my  dyin'  day,  for  I'm  care- 
ful never  to  breathe  a  whisper  of  it  to  a  single  soul,  but  he 
ferreted  out  somehow  or  t'other  that  when  she's  twenty-one 
my  Rosie  will  step  into  an  income  of  eight  hundred  dollars." 

He  shouted  the  statement  so  loudly  that  the  whole  bar 
pricked  up  its  ears.  Matt  quite  believed  that  Coble  was  inca- 
pable of  whispering  anything  to  anybody.  He  had  a  vague  envy 
of  the  fortunate  girl. 

"  Not  to  mention  three  thousand  dollars  I've  put  aside  myself 
to  hand  her  on  her  wedding-day,"  continued  Coble.  "Young 
folks  are  lucky  nowadays.  When  I  married  I  had  to  lend 
my  father-in-law  ten  dollars  to  rig  himself  up  respectable  for 
church." 

Before  they  parted  the  mountain  of  flesh  had  consented 
thunderously  to  Matt's  supplying  another  picture  of  the  dangers 
of  sponge-fishing,  but  would  not  bind  himself,  although  in  his 
third  glass,  to  do  more  in  return  than  lay  the  matter  before  his 
daughter.  Once  alone  in  the  streets  again,  Matt  felt  he  had 
made  a  bad  bargain.  The  two  and  a  half  dollars  the  jailer 
had  given  him  were  all  his  funds,  and  even  the  few  nickels  that 
would  have  to  be  expended  on  common  water-colors  and  the 
double-royal  card-board  were  a  consideration.  But  he  loyally 
executed  the  work  in  the  bedroom  he  had  ventured  to  take, 
finding  rather  a  relief  in  this  further  postponement  of  the 
problem  of  his  future.  By  the  following  afternoon  he  was  back 
at  Coble's  with  a  brilliant  sketch  far  more  arrestive  than  the 
Frenchman's.  The  shark  was  more  formidable,  the  nude  diver 
more  graceful,  his  netted  bag  more  accurate,  and  the  ocean-bed 
was  a  veritable  fairy-land  of  sea-lichens  and  polyps.  Coble  glared 
long  at  the  sketch  as  Matt  held  it  up,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  asked  Matt,  apprehensively,  at 
last. 

"  What  do  I  think  of  it  ?"  roared  old  Coble,  and  rushing 
to  the  window  he  grabbed  the  old,  inaccurate  shark,  tore  it 


MATT    RECEIVES    SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES  287 

savagely  in  two,  snatched  the  new  picture  from  the  hands  of 
the  astonished  Matt,  filled  up  the  vacancy  with  it,  dashed  out- 
side to  survey  it  from  the  sidewalk,  and  reappearing  at  the 
door,  bellowed,  "Step  this  way,  young  man,"  and  stamped  three 
times  on  the  threshold. 

Over  the  old  rye  he  reported  to  the  artist  that  he  had  found 
his  Rosie  more  placable  than  usual ;  that  she  was  even  willing 
to  listen  to  the  young  man's  plea,  though  she  seemed  to  want 
to  hear  it  from  his  own  mouth  before  deciding.  Matt  gladly 
consented  to  sup  that  evening  with  the  mountain  and  his 
daughter.  Free  drinks  never  surprised  him,  but  a  free  square 
meal  was  like  having  larks  flying  into  one's  mouth  ready 
roasted. 

It  was  the  happiest  evening  he  had  spent  for  many  a  long 
day.  There  was  a  spotless  cloth  on  the  round  table,  and  the 
food  was  good,  if  solid.  Miss  Coble  made  herself  agreeable, 
and  if  she  was  not  so  pretty  as  her  father  saw  her,  her  plump 
cheek  was  sufficiently  rosy  and  her  figure  sufficiently  comely 
and  her  frock  sufficiently  nice  to  be  grateful  to  the  eye  of  an 
artist  and  a  young  man  just  emerged  from  prison  society,  and 
starving  for  the  amenities  of  life.  Her  light-blue  eyes  lit  up 
pleasantly  when  he  addressed  her,  or  when  she  helped  -him  to 
more  griddle-cakes.  Some  stuffed  birds  over  a  low  bookcase 
that  contained  a  few  brightly  bound  volumes  reminded  him 
pleasurably  of  past  miseries.  The  stentorian  voice  of  old  Coble 
almost  monopolized  the  conversation.  He  had  much  to  say 
that  was  not  worth  listening  to — on  the  bad  crops  of  the  year 
before  last,  the  scarcity  of  helps,  and  the  failure  of  the  colony 
to  go  ahead,  which  was  apparently  connected  with  the  uncleanli- 
ness  of  the  inhabitants,  as  manifest  from  the  small  sales  of 
bath-sponges.  After  dinner  the  mountain  smoked,  and  after 
smoking  the  volcano  slept. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  think  pa's  got  a  bad  temper,"  said  Miss 
Coble,  abruptly.  She  had  hastily  cleared  away  the  supper 
dishes,  and  had  seated  herself,  half  recumbent  amid  a  litter  of 
sewing,  upon  a  couch  opposite  the  easy-chair  which  Matt  now 
occupied.  The  young  man  instinctively  glanced  towards  her 
trumpeting  parent. 


288  THE    MASTER 

"Oh,  he's  sound  enough ;  can't  you  hear?"  she  said,  laughing 
gayly.  "  I  only  hope  he  doesn't  disturb  you.  I'm  used  to  it." 

"  I  only  hope  I  sha'n't  disturb  him"  answered  Matt. 

"  I  guess  he's  making  more  noise  than  us,"  laughed  Miss 
Coble.  "  He  can't  even  be  quiet  when  he's  asleep.  I  was  going 
to  explain  to  you  that  he  can't  help  it ;  there's  something  wrong 
with  his  throat.  It  happened  when  his  voice  broke  in  his 
boyhood,  and  it  always  sounds  as  if  he  was  angry — it  always 
frightens  off  strangers,  but  he  is  really  the  best-tempered  papa 
in  the  township." 

Matt  smiled.  "I  did  think  he  was  rather  a  fire-eater  at 
first,"  he  admitted.  "But  I've  found  him  real  jolly,  and 
couldn't  quite  make  it  out  all  this  time."  He  continued  to 
smile  at  the  droilness  of  Coble's  disability,  and  the  girl's  eyes 
met  his  in  an  answering  gleam  of  merriment. 

"  Pa  says  you're  a  powerful  painter,  Mr.  Strang,"  she  said 
after  a  silence,  filled  up  by  ruttling  sounds  from  pa's  larynx. 

"  Oh,  your  pa's  only  seen  a  rough  thing  I  did  for  him,"  he 
protested,  diffidently. 

"  Never  mind."  She  shook  her  head  sagely.  "  I'm  going 
down  town  to  see  it  to-morrow,"  and  she  flashed  a  sunny 
smile  at  him  that  showed  her  teeth  were  white. 

Matt  murmured,  uneasily  :  "  Oh,  it's  not  worth  the  trouble." 

"It'll  do  me  good,  anyway.  I'm  getting  fat,  pa  says. 
Wouldn't  it  be  awful  if  I  was  to  take  after  him  ?  You  know 
he  lives  away  from  town  so  as  to  have  exercise  up  and  down 
Citadel  Hill,  but  he  might  as  well  have  lived  over  the  store." 
And  she  giggled,  not  unmusically. 

"You  can't  tell  what  he  would  have  been,"  Matt  reminded 
her  with  a  smile. 

"  Gracious  !  you  frighten  me.  He  might  have  come  through 
the  walls !  Do  you  think  there  is  really  any  danger  of  my 
growing  like  him  'I  Do  tell !" 

"There's  no  danger  of  your  losing  your  good  looks,"  replied 
Matt,  gallantly. 

"You  mean  I  never  had  any,"  she  said,  with  a  roguish  gleam 
that  made  the  plump  face  piquant. 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  he  protested,  lamely. 


MATT    RECEIVES    SUNDRY    HOSPITALITIES  289 

Miss  Coble  meditatively  picked  up  a  piece  of  tape  from  the 
litter  of  sewing  and  put  it  round  her  waist.  Then  she  measured 
her  bust. 

"  Is  that  the  proper  proportion  ?"  she  said,  holding  it  up. 
"  Artists  are  supposed  to  know,  aren't  they  ?" 

"  The  figure  couldn't  be  better,"  said  Matt. 

The  girl  shook  her  head  in  laughing  reproof. 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  measure  you  and  prove  it,  then,"  said 
Matt,  rising. 

"  My,  how  that  lamp  flares !"  cried  Miss  Coble,  rushing 
towards  the  table,  and  carefully  fumbling  with  the  regulator. 
Matt  resumed  his  seat,  feeling  rather  foolish ;  but  soon,  when 
the  girl  turned  the  talk  on  himself,  the  reserved,  solitary  young 
man  found  himself  telling  her  of  adventuies  by  sea  and  land, 
which  he  had  not  told  anybody,  perhaps  because  nobody  had 
ever  asked  him.  He  gave  Halifax  prison  a  wide  berth,  warding 
off  her  casual  questions  about  his  position  and  prospects  by 
general  statements  about  his  artistic  aspirations.  Concerning 
aspects  of  London  life  Miss  Coble's  curiosity  was  at  its  keenest, 
her  own  experience  of  existence  having  been  limited,  she  said, 
to  Halifax  and  its  environs,  with  faint,  childish  reminiscences 
of  Greencastle,  Pennsylvania,  where  her  mother  had  died 
thirteen  years  before,  when  she  was  six  years  old. 

"  Oh,  but  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  my  age,"  she  said,  pout- 
ing. "  In  ten  years'  time  you  will  know  I  am  nearly  thirty." 

Matt  was  about  to  reassure  her  by  declaring  that  in  ten 
years'  time  he  would  have  forgotten  all  about  her,  when  the 
fall  of  the  sleeper's  pipe  checked  the  unchivalrous  statement. 

He  rose  to  go  as  soon  as  the  mountain  awoke,  for  he  had  a 
goodish  tramp  before  him. 

Miss  Coble  accompanied  him  to  the  outer  door.  His  eye 
was  caught  by  the  beauty  of  the  moon,  gleaming  irregularly 
from  a  lurid  rack  of  clouds.  He  stood  in  charmed  silence  gaz- 
ing upward. 

"  What  are  you  staring  at  ?  Aren't  you  going  to  say  good- 
night ?"  asked  Miss  Coble,  rather  tartly. 

His  spirit  returned  to  earth. 

"  Oh,  good-night,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 

19 


290  THE    MASTER 

She  put  her  fingers — rougher,  but  warmer — into  his  for  the 
first  time. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  softly. 

He  did  not  let  her  hand  go  immediately.  At  the  last  instant 
he  was  invaded  by  an  indefinite  conviction  that  something — 
he  knew  not  what — had  still  to  be  done  or  said.  He  stood 
silent  on  the  little  platform. 

As  if  echoing  his  thought,  "  Haven't  you  forgot  something  ?" 
she  asked. 

His  heart  leaped  violently  with  a  thrilling  suggestion.  He 
looked  into  her  quizzing  eyes.  They  were  on  a  level  with  his 
own,  her  shorter  figure  having  the  advantage  of  the  raised 
threshold. 

"  I  thought  you  came  to  speak  to  me  about  a  Frenchman  ?" 
she  went  on. 

He  was  relieved  and  disappointed. 

"  Of  course  ;  what  a  fool  I  am  !  I  haven't  said  a  word  about 
him." 

"  Well,  it's  too  late  now.  I  can't  stand  talking  here ;  the 
neighbors  might  see  us." 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Matt,  in  a  woe-begone  tone. 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  come  again  to-morrow  evening,  then, 
if  you  want  to  go  on  with  it,  that's  certain.  Good-night  again." 

"  Till  to-morrow,  then,"  said  Matt,  raising  his  hat. 

He  walked  briskly  down  the  gravel  -  path,  glowing  with  the 
pleasure  of  the  evening,  and  looking  forward  to  another  pleas- 
ant free  meal  on  the  morrow.  Then  his  eye  sought  the  moon 
again,  but  the  cloud-rack  had  covered  it  up  entirely. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    HOSTAGE    TO    FORTUNE 


LYING  awake  next  morning  after  a  night  of  troubled  dreams, 
it  flashed  upon  him  that  he  ought  scarcely  to  go  and  see  Miss 
Coble  again  upon  the  mere  impulsive  invitation  given  on  the 
door-step  without  her  father's  knowledge.  He  was  angry  with 


A    HOSTAGE    TO    FORTUNE  291 

himself  for  having  so  curiously  let  himself  drift  away  from  the 
very  purpose  of  his  visit.  He  concluded  he  had  best  call  on 
old  Coble  again  at  the  store,  and  walked  thither  with  hangdog 
mien,  unable  even  now  to  shake  off  the  jail.  Old  Coble  was 
sorting  out  a  bale  of  sponge  into  three  baskets — one  for  bests, 
one  for  seconds,  and  one  for  thirds. 

"  Hello,  young  man !"  he  roared.  Matt  felt  a  momentary 
trepidation  before  he  remembered  that  the  old  man  meant  his 
tones  to  be  inviting.  He  crunched  his  way  towards  the  moun- 
tain over  the  gritty  debris,  sniffing  in  the  pungent  aroma  of  the 
place.  The  old  giant  straightened  himself,  brushed  the  sand 
off  each  hand  with  the  other,  and,  running  his  fingers  through 
his  white  beard  by  way  of  combing  that,  held  out  his  hairy  paw 
to  Matt.  He  gripped  the  young  man's  long  fingers  heartily, 
then  waved  him  to  a  seat  on  an  empty  inverted  sponge-box. 

"  I  hope  I'm  not  interrupting  you,"  said  Matt. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Coble,  in  angry  accents. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  made  a  fool  of  myself  last  night,"  Matt  commenced,  ab- 
ruptly. 

Coble  looked  down  inquiringly  at  him. 

"I  didn't  say  one  word  to  your  daughter  about  the  French- 
man," he  continued,  ruefully. 

The  mountain  shook  with  explosive  laughter. 

"  Ho,  I  suppose  you  were  too  taken  up  sayin'  'em  about 
yourself." 

Matt  reddened  uncomfortably,  but  was  silent. 

"  The  gal  seems  to  know  a  powerful  deal  about  you,  any- 
way," said  old  Coble,  with  a  Homeric  chuckle. 

"  We  had  to  talk  about  something,"  Matt  explained,  apolo- 
getically. 

"  Well,  Rosie  doesn't  'pear  to  want  to  talk  about  anything 
else,  that's  a  fact.  I  reckon  she  was  glad  enough  not  to  be  re- 
minded of  the  snivellin'  Frenchy." 

"  Oh,  but  I've  got  to  tell  her,"  the  young  man  urged,  un- 
easily. 

"  Oh  yes,  she  knows  you've  got  to  tell  her.  You're  coming 
to-night,  aren't  you  ?" 


292  THE    MASTER 

44 1  thought  of  it,"  Matt  stammered,  taken  aback,  "  if  I 
might!" 

"  Ho,  don't  you  be  afraid  of  us ;  we  don't  bite.  We  ain't 
sharks."  He  spat  out.  "  This  gritty  atmosphere  makes  one 
powerful  dry." 

Matt  had  an  instant  of  intense  mental  conflict,  impecuniosity 
contending  with  his  instinct  of  what  was  due  to  the  situation 
and  Coble's  past  hospitalities. 

"Will  you  liquor  with  me?"  he  said. 

"  I  was  just  about  to  ask  you  that,"  and  the  mountain  stamp- 
ed his  foot  three  times. 

The  moment  the  two  glasses  were  set  on  the  counter  of  the 
little  secret  bar  Matt  threw  down  a  ringing  dollar  with  careless 
magnificence.  Coble  put  his  paw  on  it  and  pushed  it  back  to 
him,  throwing  down  a  rival  dollar.  There  was  a  playful  scuf- 
fle of  shoving  fingers,  accompanied  by  expostulatory  murmurs. 
Then  Matt,  rejoicing  in  defeat,  resignedly  pocketed  his  van- 
quished piece. 

"  What  do  you  make  out  of  that  there  paintin'  business  ?" 
suddenly  asked  Coble,  as  he  set  down  his  half-emptied  glass  and 
lounged  reposefully  against  the  counter. 

Matt  took  another  sip  of  whiskey.  "  Oh,  there  are  ups  and 
downs,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  what's  the  uppiest  up  ?" 

"  It  depends,"  said  Matt,  vaguely.  "  If  I  could  succeed  in 
London  there's  no  end  to  the  money  I  might  make.  It  isn't 
unusual  to  get  three  or  four  thousand  dollars  for  a  picture." 

"  Three  or  four  thousand  dollars  !"  roared  the  Titan.  "  Where 
do  you  think  I  was  raised  ?" 

"  Why,  my  uncle  in  London  has  often  paid  five  thousand 
dollars  for  a  picture.  Yes,  and  even  ten,  though  that's  usually 
after  the  painter's  dead." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  go  to  London  ?" 

"  I  can't  afford  it,"  said  Matt,  frankly.  "  I've  been  there,  but 
it's  a  great  job  to  get  on  without  money,  so  I  had  to  come  back." 

"  But  couldn't  your  uncle  buy  your  pictures  ?" 

"  They  weren't  good  enough  yet,"  Matt  explained,  anxious  to 
defend  the  family  honor.  "  I  want  to  study  a  lot  more  yet." 


A    HOSTAGE    TO    FORTUNE  293 

"  Nonsense !  what  do  you  want  to  study  for  ?  Why,  that 
thar  shark  of  yours  licks  creation." 

Matt  shook  his  head.  "  I've  got  to  go  to  Paris,"  he  said, 
"  and  to  Italy,  and  see  all  the  great  pictures.  That's  the  only 
way  a  man  can  learn  after  a  certain  point."  He  added,  proud- 
ly, "  My  cousin  was  sent  to  Paris  by  the  Royal  Academy  of 
London.  He  won  the  Gold  Medal." 

"  Why  doesn't  your  uncle  send  you  there,  then  ?  He  'pears 
to  have  made  his  pile." 

Matt  had  to  take  another  sip  of  whiskey  before  he  could 
reply.  "  He  knows  I  wouldn't  take  anything  from  anybody." 

"  Don't  be  a  goney.  /  began  life  with  high  notions.  Them 
thar  sponges  you  saw  me  sortin'  out  just  now — they're  Florida 
cup  grasses,  but  the  fine-shaped  ones  in  the  first  basket  are 
goin'  to  be  Levantine  sponges  soon  as  they  are  bleached  with 
permanganate.  Time  was  when  I'd  'a  thought  that  dishonest; 
now  I  see  it's  only  the  outsides  o'  things  that  the  world  wants. 
When  you're  a  boss  painter  nobody  '11  ask  who  bleached  you." 

"  I  hope  I  can  get  on  without  bleaching,"  Matt  retorted. 

"  Ho,  don't  get  mad  !  I  don't  mean  to  insinuate  you're  not 
genuine.  But  the  world  ain't  a  soft  place  to  get  on  in.  They 
don't  bath  you  with  rose-water  and  Turkey  firsts.  I  kinder 
fancy,"  he  added,  with  a  roguish  twinkle,  "  you  must  have 
found  that  out  of  late.  Now,  what  you  want,  Mr.  Strang,  is  to 
marry  a  purty,  level-headed,  healthy  gal,  with  two  or  three 
thousand  dollars  to  tide  over  the  time  till  you  can  make  your 
five  thousand  a  pictur." 

Matt  shot  a  startled  glance  at  Coble's  beaming  face.  What 
he  read  there  supplemented  the  sensational  suggestion  of  the 
Titan's  words.  A  nervous  thrill  ran  through  all  his  body.  The 
thought  was  like  a  lightning -flash,  at  once  swift,  dazzling,  and 
terrifying.  But  without  waiting  to  analyze  his  state  of  mind, 
he  felt  immediately  that  there  was  one  thing  which  at  the  out- 
set rendered  the  idea  impossible.  Honesty  required  that  he 
should  instantly  put  a  stop  to  the  parent's  overtures,  by  inform- 
ing him  that  he  was  a  dishonored  man — that  he  had  been  in 
prison.  But  still  he  shrank  from  self-exposure.  The  union  was 
so  impossible  that  it  seemed  superfluous  to  humiliate  himself. 


294  THE    MASTER 

"  Maybe,"  lie  replied ;  "  but  five  thousand's  only  the  uppiest 
up,  as  you  call  it.  If  I  didn't  get  there,  I  might  be  thought  a 
humbug." 

"  Oh !  any  smart  man  who  saw  that  shark  would  take  the 
risk  of  that ;  and,  even  if  you  didn't  get  to  the  uppiest  up, 
there  'd  be  no  fear  of  your  coming  down  again  to  the  downiest 
down." 

Matt  turned  his  eyes  away,  and  his  fingers  tattooed  nervously 
on  the  stem  of  his  glass. 

"  That  Frenchy  friend  of  yours  now,  he  had  the  sense  and 
the  sarse  to  want  my  gal,  but,  of  course,  no  proper  parent  would 
trust  his  darter  to  a  man  like  that.  So  there  he  lays  in  the 
downiest  down — good  name  for  jail,  eh  ?  Ho  !  ho  !" 

Matt  wished  his  companion  could  moderate  his  accents ;  he 
did  not  relish  this  thunderous  talk  of  jail. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going  now,"  he  said. 

"I'm  with  you;  I'm  with  you,"  genially  thundered  Coble, 
sauntering  after  him  into  the  sunny  street.  "  You  just  think 
that  pointer  o'  mine  over ;  it  lets  you  keep  your  independence 
and  your  high  notions,  and  you  ain't  indebted  to  anybody.  All 
you've  got  to  do  is  to  find  a  purty  gal  who's  got  money  and 
who  won't  fool  it  away,  a  gal  who's  been  raised  simply  and  can 
do  her  own  cookin'  and  make  her  own  dresses,  and  don't  play 
the  pianner;  you  find  a  gal  like  that,  with  a  sensible  father 
that  don't  think  wuss  of  a  young  man  because  he's  been  in  the 
downiest  down." 

"  You  know  ?"  Matt  faltered.     He  came  to  a  halt. 

"  Of  course  I  know.     Warn't  it  in  the  paper  ?" 

"But  I  did  paint  the  portrait  of  the  jailer,"  he  protested, 
his  cheeks  fiery. 

"I  knew  you'd  been  in  chokey  all  the  same."  Coble  clapped 
his  paw  on  the  last  button  of  his  waistcoat.  "  A  stomach  that 
size  warn't  born  yesterday.  But  I've  kept  it  from  Rosie;  she 
don't  understand  business,  nor  how  credit's  a  fair  wind  to-day, 
and  to-morrow  a  tornado  tearin'  around  and  layin'  everything 
low.  You  find  a  good  father,"  pursued  Coble,  in  accents  as 
impersonal  as  they  were  angry,  so  that  Matt  fancied  he  had 
mistaken  the  Titan's  import,  "  and  convince  him  your  folks  are 


A    HOSTAGE    TO    FORTUNE  295 

respectable,  and  there's  no  wife  foolin'  around  in  London  or 
New  York  City,  and,"  here  he  resumed  his  walk,  "  if  he  don't 
jump  at  you — I'll — waal,  I'm  blamed  if  I  don't  give  you  my  own 
darter.  There !" 

What  he  would  have  replied  to  this  wager  Matt  never  knew, 
for  with  a  sudden  cry  of  "  Thunderation  !  The  shark's  stolen," 
the  mountain  bounded  forward  with  incredible  alacrity  and 
dashed  into  the  store. 

But  it  was  his  own  child  who  was  the  temporary  thief. 
Matt,  following  Mr.  Coble  back  into  the  store  to  see  if  his 
picture  had  been  really  paid  the  compliment  of  appropriation, 
found  father  and  daughter  bending  admiringly  over  it  as  it 
stood  on  the  counter,  propped  up  against  some  large  coarse  grass- 
sponges.  His  heart  beat  faster  with  surprise  and  excitement. 

"  Hullo  !  You  here  ?"  said  Rosina,  raising  a  face  that  seemed 
radiant  amid  the  dull  browns  and  grays  of  the  store. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  would  be  here,"  he  answered,  awkwardly, 
not  knowing  what  to  reply. 

"  Why,  didn't  I  tell  you  yesterday  I  was  coming?" 

She  looked  roguishly  at  him  from  beneath  the  broad  brim  of 
her  flower-wreathed  hat,  whose  narrow  black-velvet  strings  were 
tied  coquettishly  under  her  left  ear. 

"  So  you  did.     I  forgot,"  he  said. 

"  You  seem  to  forget  everything,"  she  responded,  pertly. 

"  Yes,  he's  lost  his  head  altogether,"  roared  old  Coble. 

"  Thank  you  for  reminding  me,"  said  Matt,  eagerly.  "  Now 
you  are  here  I  can  tell  you  what  the  Frenchman  says." 

"  Bother  the  Frenchman  !"  said  Miss  Coble,  pouting. 

"  Yes,  but  he's  languishing  in  prison  this  fine,  bright  day — " 

"  Mr.  Strang  painted  the  jailer's  portrait.  That's  how  he 
met  the  rogue,"  old  Coble  interrupted. 

"  And  he  often  cries,"  went  on  Matt. 

Miss  Coble  laughed. 

"  Gracious,  you  make  me  feel  like  a  princess,  keeping  men  in 
dungeons." 

"  Well,  that's  how  you  ought  to  feel,"  said  Matt. 

"  Then  I  guess  I'll  take  the  privilege  of  a  princess,"  said  Miss 
Coble.  "  I'll  let  him  out  on  my  wedding-morn." 


296  THE    MASTER 

Coble  roared  with  laughter. 

'*  There,  that's  a  fair  offer  for  you,  my  boy." 

Matt  felt  very  embarrassed,  but  he  ventured  to  hope,  "  for 
the  poor  devil's  sake,"  that  Miss  Coble  would  get  married  soon. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Coble,  to  Matt's  relief.  "  You're  forget- 
tin'  this  poor  devil.  What  am  I  to  do  without  my  Rosie  ?" 

"  Oh,  you'll  get  along  all  right,"  said  Miss  Coble,  with  a 
playful  tug  at  his  drooping  white  beard.  "  You  can  send  for 
Aunt  Clara." 

"  I  wish  you'd  be  serious  about  the  poor  man  in  the  prison," 
Matt  pleaded. 

"  I  am  serious,"  Miss  Coble  insisted,  indignantly. 

"  Oh  yes,  she's  serious,"  interposed  the  parent.  "  She's 
solid,  is  Rosie.  You  can't  squeeze  her  like  this  'ere  sponge. 
'Pears  to  me  the  only  way  to  help  your  man  is  to  hurry  on  the 
marriage." 

The  advent  of  a  customer  here  removed  him,  chuckling,  from 
the  conversation  ;  and  while  he  was  talking  angrily  to  the  new- 
comer, Matt,  who  had  been  itching  to  slip  away,  found  himself 
compelled  to  linger  on  and  entertain  the  young  lady,  a  task 
which  he  ended  by  finding  pleasant  enough.  When  she  at  last 
said  she  must  go  about  her  marketing,  he  even  asked  if  there 
was  anything  he  could  carry  for  her. 

"  Gracious,  no !  we  get  the  things  sent.  But  you  can  walk 
along,  if  you  have  nothing  better  to  do." 

So  Matt  threaded  his  way  with  her  among  the  busy  stores, 
feeling  her  a  part  of  the  sunny  freshness  of  the  day,  to  which 
he  was  now  alive  again ;  and  walking  with  head  erect,  for  he 
felt  himself  rehabilitated  by  the  companionship  of  so  genteel  a 
member  of  society.  He  was  amused  by  the  keen  bargains  she 
drove,  and  acquired  a  new  interest  in  prices.  Evidently  Coble 
was  right — she  would  make  a  provident  house-keeper.  But 
she  would  only  let  him  see  her  part  of  the  way  home,  though 
she  told  him  papa  expected  him  to  join  their  evening  meal. 

"  He's  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  you,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
know  why,  I'm  sure." 

"  I  don't  know  why,  either,"  said  Matt,  simply. 

**  Perhaps  that's  why,"  Miss  Coble  answered,  enigmatically. 


A    HOSTAGE    TO    FORTUNE  297 

Then  she  lent  him  her  gloved  fingers  for  a  moment,  and  gave 
him  a  pleasant  smile,  and  tripped  away,  and  he  went  back  and 
down  to  the  water-side,  and  lounged  about  aimlessly  in  the  sun, 
sky  and  sea  and  shipping  and  the  glimpses  of  hill  and  forest 
across  the  harbor  and  the  white  sea-gulls  and  the  bronzed 
Scandinavian  sailors  thrilling  him  with  the  old  sense  of  the 
beauty  and  romance  of  life.  But  the  open  air  gave  him  an 
appetite,  too,  and  the  appetite  brought  him  back  to  the  sordid- 
ness  of  things,  to  his  nigh-bare  pockets  and  the  insistent  sphinx 
of  his  future.  He  laid  out  a  few  cents  to  stave  off  hunger  till 
evening  should  bring  better  fare  at  Coble's ;  then,  in  the  strong- 
er mood  induced  by  even  this  minimum  of  nutriment,  a  tiresome 
inner  voice  began  asking  by  what  right  he  meditated  foisting 
himself  upon  strangers.  He  had  no  longer  the  excuse  of  the 
Frenchman.  He  had  heard  Miss  Coble's  ultimatum  on  that 
matter.  And  the  tiresome  voice  persisted  in  dragging  up  other 
troublesome  thoughts  from  the  depths  of  consciousness.  As  he 
walked  about  the  lively  quays  it  kept  repeating  Mr.  Coble's  obser- 
vations, though  less  loudly.  Despite  some  dubious  remarks,  de- 
spite the  a  priori  improbability  and  unexpectedness  of  the  whole 
thing,  was  it  possible  for  Matt  to  doubt  that  the  old  man  would 
be  willing  to  give  him  his  daughter  ?  With  whatever  timidity 
he  shrank  from  facing  the  possibility,  wilfully  closing  his  eyes 
as  before  a  great  glare,  he  could  not  but  feel  that  Coble's  idea 
was  both  rash  and  generous.  Of  course  his  future  would 
justify  the  old  man's  trust  and  repay  it  a  hundred-fold,  but  such 
confidence  was  none  the  less  touching.  Coble  did  not  know — 
the  sun  and  sea  had  made  the  young  man  drunk  again — that 
he  was  entertaining  a  genius.  And  Miss  Coble,  too  ;  how  kind 
of  her  to  be  so  nice  to  a  penniless  young  man  !  Her  pleasant 
smiles  had  been  medicinal  sunshine  to  his  despairing  apathy. 
If  he  had  not  met  the  Cobles,  what  would  have  become  of  him  ? 
But  was  the  girl  quite  of  her  father's  mind  towards  him  ?  Her 
attitude  was  certainly  not  repellent.  He  allowed  himself  to 
dally  undisguisedly  with  the  idea,  and  it  made  him  giddy.  The 
hope  of  Art  flamed  again  so  fiercely  that  he  wondered  how  it 
could  have  lain  smouldering  so  long  in  his  bosom.  He  was  like 
a  pedestrian  toiling  foot-sore  and  heart-broken  towards  a  great 


298  THE    MASTER 

light  that  shone  celestially  on  the  verge  of  the  horizon.  For 
years  he  had  followed  the  sacred  gleam,  over  lonely  deserts  and 
waste  places,  with  hunger  and  thirst  and  pain;  and  now  as, 
with  bleeding  feet  that  could  drag  along  no  longer,  he  was  fain 
to  drop  down  on  the  way-side,  lo  !  a  sound  of  wheels  and  a  sud- 
den carriage  at  his  side,  and  he  had  but  to  step  in  to  be  driven 
luxuriously  to  the  long-tantalizing  goal. 

And  in  this  fairy  carriage,  moreover,  sat  a  pretty  maiden,  on 
whose  ripe  breast  he  could  pillow  his  tired  head,  and  in  whose 
arms  he  could  find  consolation  for  the  blank  years.  Oh  !  it  was 
bewildering,  dazzling,  intoxicating.  But  did  he  love  the  maiden 
of  this  enchanting  vision  ?  Well,  what  was  love  ?  It  would 
certainly  be  sweet  to  hold  her  warm  hand  in  his,  to  see  her  blue 
eyes  soften  with  tenderness  as  they  gazed  into  his  own.  It  was  so 
long  since  a  woman  had  kissed  him — such  weary,  crawling,  barren 
years  !  That  ancient  episode  with  Priscilla  came  up,  as  it  had  not 
seldom  done  before,  transfigured  by  the  haze  of  time  and  the 
after-glamour  of  romance  ;  he  had  long  since  forgotten  how  little 
the  girl  had  really  appealed  to  him  in  the  flesh,  and  to  remember 
that  he  had  spurned  her  caresses  did  not  always  give  him 
a  glow  of  moral  satisfaction.  In  the  delicious  sunshine  that 
danced  to-day  in  a  myriad  gleams  on  the  green  waters,  and  made 
the  air  like  wine,  lurked  a  subtle  appeal  to  his  mere  manhood. 
Were  not  all  women  equally  lovable  for  their  sex?  In  the 
novels  and  poems  he  had  read  love  was  glorified  and  woman 
was  a  spirit ;  in  his  own  soul  lay  divine  conceptions  of  woman- 
hood that  inspired  his  art  and  sanctified  his  dreams :  a  woman- 
hood whose  bodily  incarnation — imagined  now  in  this  gracious 
shape,  now  in  that — was  the  outer  symbol  of  an  inner  loveli- 
ness of  thought  and  emotion.  But  he  had  not  met  this  Ideal 
Womanhood ;  nor  did  he  even  expect  to  meet  it  in  the  crude 
common  day.  Once  or  twice  in  his  London  life,  as  in  his  boy- 
hood in  this  very  city  of  Halifax,  when  he  had  worshipped  the 
beautiful  horsewoman,  he  had  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  it,  but 
it  was  always  far  off — as  far  as  the  star  from  the  moth.  And 
so,  whether  seen  or  divined,  it  belonged  almost  equally  to  that 
world  of  imagination  in  which  his  true  life  had  been  lived,  in 
which  he  had  always  taken  refuge  from  the  real.  He  had 


A    HOSTAGE    TO    FORTUNE  299 

scarcely  known  before  a  girl  so  refined  as  Miss  Coble,  unless, 
perhaps,  it  was  the  adolescent  Ruth  Hailey,  whose  shy  stateli- 
ness  had  made  her  so  alien  from  the  little  girl  he  dimly  re- 
membered taking  for  a  sweetheart  in  those  days  of  childish 
mimicry  when  one  drives  broomsticks  for  horses.  Why  should 
he  not  marry  this  pleasant,  plump  young  woman,  if  she  would 
condescend  to  him  ?  Though  her  position  was  so  much  better 
than  his,  he  did  not  feel  her  too  remote  from  him  for  comfort- 
able companionship,  especially  as  she  would  never  know  that  he 
had  been  in  jail.  If  he  did  not  love  her,  in  the  vague  tran- 
scendental sense,  at  least  he  did  not  love  any  other  woman,  and 
was  never  likely  to.  He  was  not  as  other  men :  his  life  was 
not  in  their  world ;  it  was  centred  on  Art,  it  was  occupied  with 
visions,  its  goal  was  not  happiness  or  a  home.  But  if  these 
offered  themselves  to  him  by  the  way,  even  while  they  made 
his  real  goal  possible,  it  were  mere  insane  self -martyrdom  to  re- 
fuse them.  A  wife  would  save  him  from  his  lower  self,  and  in 
his  moments  of  artistic  despair  she  would  always  be  there  to 
comfort  and  console.  Nay — and  he  smiled  at  the  consideration 
— even  in  his  moments  of  artistic  achievement,  she  could  be 
there  as  a  model.  Models  ran  away  with  a  great  deal  of  money, 
and  for  an  artist  a  wife  was  really  an  economy.  And  if  in  his 
artistic  aspiration  she  could  have  no  share,  neither  could  any  one 
else,  woman  or  man.  An  artist  could  not  really  have  a  mate — 
at  most  a  mistress  or  a  house-keeper.  His  Art  was  a  holy  of 
holies,  in  which  he  must  ever  be  the  sole  priest,  and  in  this  holy 
of  holies  Ideal  Womanhood  could  still  have  its  place  as  before. 

Such  are  the  pitfalls  of  the  artistic  temperament,  moving 
amid  unrealities,  spinning  its  own  cosmos. 

Three  thousand  dollars  down !  He  could  pay  off  the  store- 
keeper and  cleanse  away  the  prison  stain.  He  could  send  Ma- 
dame Strang  her  little  balance,  and,  best  of  all — and  the  thought 
moved  him  almost  to  tears  —  his  poor  brothers  and  sisters 
would  henceforth  be  certain  of  their  allowance.  For  himself 
the  prospects  were  equally  tempting — a  honey-moon  in  Europe, 
in  the  cities  of  romantic  dream,  amid  the  masterpieces  of  Art. 
And  then  when,  after  a  couple  of  years  of  study  and  work,  his 
own  masterpiece  should  be  completed,  a  settled  income  of  eight 


300  THE    MASTER 

hundred  dollars  —  bread  and  cheese  always  sure,  putting  him 
for  life  beyond  the  vulgar  necessity  of  pandering  to  the  market, 
rescuing  him  from  that  sordid  internal  conflict  which  imbit- 
tered  even  when  it  failed  to  degrade.  Oh,  the  rapture  of  a 
life  so  consecrated  to  Art ! 

But  would  Miss  Coble  or  her  parent  consent  to  this  expendi- 
ture of  the  money  ?  Of  course  it  would  all  have  to  be  distinct- 
ly understood  ere  he  could  agree  to  marry  the  girl.  He  flushed, 
finding  how  mercenary  motive  predominated  in  his  reverie.  Mr. 
Coble  had  indeed  hinted  acquiescence  in  some  such  scheme. 
But  an  instinct  kept  the  young  man  from  concluding  to  ac- 
quiesce in  it  himself.  A  vague  shame  and  repugnance  struggled 
with  his  sense  of  the  advantages  of  the  match ;  waxing  so 
strong  in  the  reaction  that  followed  the  glow  of  temptation 
that  he  determined  not  to  go  to  the  Cobles'  that  evening.  This 
visit,  he  felt,  would  be  fatal. 

He  went  home  to  his  little  room  in  the  central  slums,  deter- 
mined not  to  stir  out.  He  had  meant  to  go  to  bed,  broad  day 
though  it  was,  and  sleep  away  the  temptation.  But  he  only 
threw  himself  upon  the  pallet,  in  his  clothes,  and  was  more 
conscious  of  hunger  than  of  the  heaviness  necessary  for  sleep. 
Yet  he  would  not  break  into  his  last  two  dollars  to-day.  He 
tried  to  divert  his  mind  from  Miss  Coble's  dowry  by  alternative 
projects  for  continuing  his  life,  but  they  only  served  to  show 
the  length  of  the  bleak,  arid,  solitary  road  that  lay  before  his 
bruised  feet  if  he  let  the  carriage  go  by.  Money !  Money  ! 
Money  !  What  had  -he  not  suffered  from  the  struggle  for  it  ? 
Degrading  to  live  on  another  person's  money  ?  It  was  life 
without  money  that  was  degrading,  humiliating,  full  of  petty 
considerations,  consumed  in  irrelevant  labors.  In  the  novels 
that  made  such  a  fuss  about  love  troubles,  the  fine-sounding 
sorrows  seemed  to  him  infinitely  smaller  than  the  carks  and 
worries  of  prosaic  existence. 

He  dozed  a  little  and  dreamed  of  his  mother.  He  was  back  in 
childhood,  standing  with  bare  feet  in  an  icy  passage,  and  she  was 
screaming  at  Harriet  for  refusing  to  marry  Mr.  Coble.  He  went 
through  all  the  old  agony  of  these  frequent  domestic  tragedies. 
But  he  did  not  feel  cold  so  much  as  hungry,  and  breakfast 


A    HOSTAGE    TO    FORTUNE  301 

was  being  delayed  by  the  squabble.  He  heard  Daisy,  equally 
aggrieved,  lowing  in  the  barn.  In  the  face  of  the  advantages 
of  the  Coble  marriage  it  did  seem  unreasonable  of  Harriet  to 
stick  to  Bully  Preep,  who  would  probably  beat  her.  He  awoke 
with  a  sensation  of  relief,  which  was  instantly  exchanged  for  a 
new  worry.  Ought  he  to  tell  the  Cobles  about  his  mother, 
supposing  he  really  thought  of —  But  no ;  he  did  not  think 
of —  And,  in  any  case,  there  was  no  use  in  raking  up  unpleas- 
ant matters.  He  had  not  inherited  her  dementia ;  it  was  not  in 
her  blood ;  it  had  grown  up  gradually  from  the  sad,  narrow 
circumstances  of  her  lot ;  it  was  his  father  that  he  took  after. 
He  was  not  mad ;  he  was  more  likely  to  go  mad  if  he  con- 
tinued his  terrible  solitary  struggle.  Unless,  indeed — and  here 
came  a  sudden  vision  of  a  scene  that  had  lain  forgotten  for 
long  years — unless,  indeed,  Mad  Peggy  had  been  right !  Mad 
Matt!  Oh  no,  it  was  madness  to  attach  any  meaning  to  the 
Water-Drinker's  words.  Never  had  he  felt  so  sane.  He  got  up 
and  looked  into  the  dusty  glass  on  the  wash-stand.  That  was 
not  the  face  of  a  madman.  She  had  prophesied  he  would 
never  be  happy — never,  never !  He  would  thirst  and  thirst  for 
happiness,  but  never  would  he  quench  his  thirst.  Ah,  the  crazy 
creature  was  right  there,  anyhow.  He  watched  with  curious 
interest  the  tears  rolling  down  the  face  in  the  mirror.  Well,  be 
it  so !  He  was  strong,  he  could  dispense  with  happiness.  He 
would  not  go  to  the  Cobles'  that  evening.  To-morrow  he  would 
leave  Halifax,  and  join  his  folks  in  Cobequid  at  last.  They 
would  all  live  out  their  lives  together — poor  victims  of  a  com- 
mon destiny.  He  would  work  on  the  farm,  he  would  rent 
more  land,  he  would  make  it  pay.  His  uncle  had  been  right 
all  along.  Why  had  he  not  taken  his  advice  and  stayed  on  at 
Cattermole's  farm  ?  Ah,  well,  his  dream  of  Art  was  over  now. 
He  was  getting  on  in  years ;  the  energy  had  been  buffeted  out 
of  him.  One  could  not  always  be  young  and  ambitious.  He 
would  never  be  famous  now ;  he  would  toil  obscurely  like  his 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  his  bones  would  lie  with  theirs  in  the 
little  lonesome  church-yard  among  the  pines.  It  did  not  mat- 
ter ;  nothing  mattered.  Death  would  shovel  them  all  away 
soon  enough. 


302  THE    MASTER 

He  lay  down  on  the  bed  again.  Near  it  stood  a  wash-stand 
with  a  piece  of  ragged  sponge  upon  it.  His  eye  noted  a  patch  of 
light  on  the  sponge,  and  he  wondered  how  the  sunshine  had 
got  there.  Then  he  perceived  the  yellow  patch  was  only  a  re- 
flection from  the  water-bottle,  and  his  thoughts  turned  to  the 
problem  of  painting  sunlight  by  optical  illusion.  He  thought 
of  Cornpepper  and  the  fellows  and  all  the  happy  discussions 
he  had  had  in  London.  The  afternoon  waned  into  evening  ;  the 
patch  of  mock  sunshine  faded ;  the  shadows  gathered,  shrouding 
the  walls  with  mystery. 

He  grew  faint  with  hunger ;  in  the  dusk  there  opened  out  a 
picture  of  a  lamp  -  lit  room  with  a  snowy  cloth  on  its  round 
table,  and  a  plump  figure  with  soft  blue  eyes  presiding  over 
the  savory  dishes. 

The  vision  drew  him.  He  rose,  washed  himself  carefully, 
and  went  out. 

A  month  later,  a  week  before  his  marriage,  Matt  Strang 
journeyed  to  Cobequid  to  see  his  folks,  and  bid  them  farewell 
before  leaving  for  his  artistic  honey-moon  in  Europe.  He  had 
written  the  news  home,  but  they  could  not  afford  to  come  to 
Halifax  for  the  wedding,  and  so  he  had  promised  to  run  down 
before  starting  on  his  second  voyage  in  search  of  Art.  He 
alighted  from  the  coach  at  Cobequid  Village  overwhelmed  with 
emotion,  resolved  to  walk  the  rest  of  the  way  towards  the  joy- 
ous reunion  with  his  brothers  and  sisters ;  he  wished  to  note 
each  familiar  landmark — the  fields,  the  farms,  the  stores,  the 
little  meeting-house,  all  the  beloved  features  of  the  spacious, 
scattered  wooden  metropolis  of  his  childhood.  It  was  almost 
noon,  and  the  landscape,  seen  through  the  waves  of  hot  air 
rising  from  the  soil,  quivered  in  the  heat.  The  white  farm- 
houses glittered;  the  paint  of  the  verandas  bulged  out;  the 
wooden  spire  of  the  meeting-house  pointed  piously  to  a  heaven 
of  stainless  blue.  In  the  farm-yards  the  fowls  lolled  prostrate 
on  their  sides  with  open  mouths  and  drooping  wings,  their 
tongues  protruding,  their  eyes  closed,  their  legs  every  now  and 
then  uneasily  stirring  up  the  dust  under  their  wings ;  the  cattle 
and  horses  stood  deep  in  pools  under  the  trees.  The  bumble- 


A    HOSTAGE    TO    FORTUNE  303 

bees  droned  sleepily  about  the  wild  roses  of  the  way-side,  or 
buzzed  among  the  white-weed  and  yellow  buttercups  and  dan- 
delions that  mottled  the  hay-fields.  The  red  squirrels  chattered 
on  the  spruces  as  they  sat  shelling  cones,  their  tails  curved 
over  their  backs ;  the  woodpeckers  tapped  on  the  hollow  stubs, 
the  blue  -  jays  screamed  among  the  branches ;  a  hawk  circled 
tranquilly  upward  to  a  speck,  then  sailed  softly  downward 
with  motionless  wings  outspread.  In  the  fields  men  were  hoe- 
ing potatoes,  following  the  slow  oxen  that  dragged  the  ploughs 
between  the  furrows,  and  heaping  up  the  earth  with  leisurely, 
monotonous  movements ;  belated  sowers  of  buckwheat  were 
scattering  the  triangular  grains  with  a  slow,  measured,  hypnotic 
motion.  In  the  sultry  stores  there  was  nothing  doing;  now 
and  then  a  store-keeper  in  his  shirt-sleeves  spat  solemnly  or 
drawled  a  lazy  monosyllable.  Behind  a  casement  a  slumbrous 
old  crone  snuffed  herself.  A  wagon  rumbled  dustily  beneath 
the  overarching  trees.  The  far-stretching  village  drowsed  in 
the  sun. 

High  noon.  The  conches  began  sounding  to  call  the  farm- 
hands to  dinner,  and  every  sign  of  labor  melted  away.  The 
languor  crept  over  the  young  pedestrian.  A  perception  of  the 
futility  of  ambition  flooded  his  soul  like  a  wave  of  summer 
sea,  soft  and  warm  and  bitter.  To  pass  through  life  tranquil 
and  obscure,  amid  the  simplicities  and  sanctities  of  childish 
custom,  with  work  and  rest,  with  feast-day  and  Sunday;  to 
walk  in  foot-worn  ways  amid  the  same  fragrant  wild-flowers,  to 
the  music  of  the  same  birds,  hand  in  hand  with  a  daughter  of 
the  same  soil,  to  whom  every  hoar  usage  and  green  meadow 
should  be  similarly  dear ;  to  carry  on  the  chain  of  the  quiet 
generations,  and  so  pass  lingeringly  towards  a  forgotten  grave 
amid  humble  kinsfolk — were  not  this  sweeter  than  the  trump 
and  glare  of  Fame,  and  the  ache  of  ambition,  and  the  loneliness 
of  untrodden  footways?  He  seemed  to  hear  Mad  Peggy's 
mocking  laughter  in  the  distance. 

He  moved  curiously  in  the  direction  of  the  sounds,  skirting 
a  new  barn-like  building  which  blocked  his  view,  and  which  he 
saw  from  a  notice  was  a  Baptist  meeting-house,  such  as  his 
mother  had  always  yearned  for ;  McTavit's  school-house  met  his 


304  THE    MASTER 

gaze,  still  standing-  in  its  field,  and  in  the  foreground  a  mob  of 
boys  and  girls  shouting  and  laughing  with  the  exuberance  of 
school-children  just  let  out.  After  a  moment  he  perceived  that 
they  were  jeering  and  hooting  somebody  ;  then  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  ungainly  figure  of  a  young  man  in  the  centre  of 
derision,  with  a  dozen  hands  playfully  pulling  and  pushing  him. 
The  poor  butt  fell  down,  and  there  was  a  great  outburst  of 
hilarious  delight.  Matt's  blood  boiled  ;  he  ran  quietly  forward 
towards  the  booing  juvenile  crowd,  which  scattered  a  little  at 
the  sight  of  his  flaming  countenance. 

"You  pesky  little !"  he  cried.  Then  his  voice  failed. 

With  a  flash  of  horror  he  recognized  his  brother  Billy. 

"Boo !"  recommenced  one  of  the  bigger  louts.    "  Rot-gut  rum !" 

Matt  seized  the  crutch  which  lay  at  the  side  of  the  prostrate 
drunken  cripple,  and  described  a  threatening  circle  with  it ; 
the  pack  of  children  broke  up  and  made  off,  hooting  from  a 
safer  distance. 

"  Billy !"  he  said,  hoarsely,  clutching  the  wretched  young 
fellow  by  the  coat  -  collar,  half  to  raise  him,  half  in  instinctive 
.  anger. 

Returning  intelligence  struggled  with  the  look  of  maudlin 
pathos  on  Billy's  white  face.  The  shock  of  the  sight  of  his 
brother  sobered  him.  He  suffered  himself  to  be  lifted  to  his 
feet,  then  he  took  his  crutch  and  moved  forward,  refusing  fur- 
ther help. 

"  I  kin  walk,"  he  said,  sullenly. 

The  tone  and  accent  grated  on  Matt's  ear.  But  a  pang  of 
self-reproach  mixed  with  his  wrath  and  disgust.  It  was  his 
part  to  have  looked  after  Billy  better. 

"  I  didn't  expect  we  should  meet  like  this,  Billy,"  he  said, 
softly. 

"  You  should  hev  come  sooner,"  Billy  retorted,  "  'stead  of 
gaddin'  about  all  the  world  over  enjoyin'  yourself,  and  never 
comin'  nigh  us,  not  even  when  you  were  tourin'  in  the  Province 
with  your  portraits  an'  your  photographers." 

"  I  never  was  near  enough,  and  I  always  had  to  move  on," 
he  explained,  gently,  as  he  flicked  the  dust  of  the  road  off 
Billv's  coat. 


A    HOSTAGE    TO    FORTUNE  305 

"  Never  mind  my  clothes ;  they  won't  spoil,  they're  not  so 
fine  as  yours.  If  you're  'shamed  to  walk  with  me — " 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  Billy.  I'm  only  glad  to  see  how  well 
you  can  walk." 

The  brothers  passed  defiantly  through  the  straggling  rem- 
nants of  the  juvenile  crowd. 

"  I've  walked  to  the  village,"  said  Billy.  "  I'm  strong  enough 
to  go  anywhere  a'most." 

A  few  hoots  recommenced  in  the  rear. 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  gone  to  the  village  to-day,"  sighed  Matt. 

"  And  why  shouldn't  I  ?"  cried  Billy,  pricked  to  savagery 
again.  "  What  is  there  for  me  but  gittin'  drunk  ?  I  got  drunk 
when  you  wrote  the  news — so  I  did.  Thet  was  the  first  time. 
We  all  drank  your  health  an'  your  bride's,  an'  I  got  drunk, 
an'  I'm  glad  I  found  out  the  joy  of  it.  Why  shouldn't  I  hev 
some  pleasure  too  ?  I'll  never  hev  a  bride  of  my  own — thet's 
certain.  What  girl  would  take  me?  Do  you  deny  it?  Why, 
even  when  Ruth  Hailey  was  here  she  on'y  pitied  me." 

"  Hadn't  we  better  get  a  lift?"  said  Matt,  gently,  for  a  car- 
riage was  rumbling  behind  them. 

"  I've  been  twice  to  the  rum-hole  since  the  money  came," 
pursued  Billy,  in  dogged  defiance.  "  It's  the  on'y  way  to  forgit 
every  thin'." 

He  stumped  on  sturdily.  Beads  of  perspiration  glistened  on 
his  white,  bloodless  face. 

"  What  money  came  ?"  Matt  asked,  puzzled. 

"  The  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  you  sent  a  couple  of  days 
after  you  got  engaged." 

"  I  never  sent  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,"  he  cried. 

"  Didn't  you  ?"  Billy  opened  his  large,  pathetic  eyes  wider. 
"  Well,  now,  that's  funny.  We  wondered  why  you  did  it  so 
curiously,  and  why  the  postmark  was  Maine.  We  thought  you 
were  up  to  some  fun,  now  you  had  so  much  money,  but  we  al- 
lowed we'd  wait  till  you  came." 

But  Matt  could  not  solve  the  mystery.  The  notes  had  been 
addressed  to  "  The  Strangs,"  and  were  accompanied  by  a  slip 
of  paper :  "  The  same  amount  of  the  money  due  to  you  will  be 
forwarded  next  year." 

20 


306  THE    MASTER 

That  was  all  the  message.  Matt  exhausted  himself  in  guesses. 
His  thoughts  even  went  back  to  the  owners  of  the  Sally  Bell, 
imagining  some  tardy  conscience-money  in  repayment  of  arrears 
due  to  the  dead  captain.  At  last  he  concluded  the  remittance 
must  have  come  from  Madame  Strang,  acting  through  some 
American  agent.  She  had  discovered  Herbert  owed  him  money, 
and  was  sending  him  double  and  quadruple  by  way  of  remorse 
for  the  mistake  she  and  her  husband  had  made.  To  prevent 
him  from  returning  it,  she  had  sent  it  to  his  family,  and  anony- 
mously. 

Abner  Preep  contended  that  there  was  no  occasion  for 
Matt  to  help  his  brothers  and  sisters  further  for  the  present. 
The  subsidy  was  ample ;  more  would  only  lead  to  unnecessary 
extravagance.  Matt  was  not  entirely  pleased  to  find  his  family 
had  no  immediate  need  to  profit  by  his  marriage.  Indeed,  he 
almost  wished  the  money  had  not  come.  It  was  perturbing  to 
feel  in  himself  a  yearning — now  that  his  burdens  were  lightened 
— to  make  one  last  desperate  effort  to  take  the  kingdom  of  Art 
by  his  own  unaided  assault ;  it  was  even  more  perturbing  to  feel 
himself  solicited  by  that  other  self,  which  had  'spoken  out  on 
that  sultry  summer  afternoon,  to  abandon  Art  altogether  for 
the  simple  restfulness  of  a  life  in  his  own  village  at  one  with 
Nature.  The  life  that  had  cramped  him  once  seemed  curiously 
soothing  now;  his  old  fretful  sense  of  superiority  to  this 
Philistine  environment  was  gone.  But  most  perturbing  of  all 
was  the  thought  of  Rosina.  In  neither  of  these  suggested  alter- 
natives— to  have  another  try  alone,  or  to  settle  down  in  Cobe- 
quid  —  did  she  play  any  part,  and  he  always  came  back  with  a 
shock  to  the  recollection  of  his  relation  to  her,  that  made  botli 
of  these  futures  impossible.  He  would  not  allow  himself  to 
dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  thought  of  backing  out  of  his  engage- 
ment— honor  forbade  that.  And  was  he  even  certain  that  he  did 
not  care  for  her  ?  How  piquant  she  had  looked  now  and  then 
when  she  had  accidentally  got  into  one  or  other  of  the  two 
postures  that  became  her  best,  as  on  the  night  when,  smiling,  she 
had  thrown  back  her  head  a  little  to  the  left,  with  the  somewhat 
plebeian  nose  refined  by  foreshortening,  and  the  warm  carmines 
and  ivory  of  the  face  and  throat  showing  in  the  lamplight  against 


A    HOSTAGE    TO    FORTUNE  307 

the  loosened  hair.  And  then  how  simple  and  unpretentious  she 
was,  how  charmingly  candid  her  chafferings  with  the  store- 
keepers !  But  it  eased  his  mind  somewhat  to  find  Billy  selfishly 
laying  claim  to  the  mysterious  money,  persisting  he  would  travel 
with  it  —  he  would  see  the  world.  Matt  persuaded  Harriet  to 
acquiescence  in  the  idea,  relieved  to  find  his  immediate  responsi- 
bilities to  the  smaller  children  restored  to  him.  But,  unknown 
to  Billy,  Matt  had  already  decided  he  must,  if  possible,  take 
charge  of  the  poor  fellow  and  keep  him  from  drink.  He  wrote 
to  ask  Rosina's  permission  to  let  his  crippled  brother  travel  with 
him,  as  his  health  needed  a  sea  voyage.  He  waited  anxiously 
for  the  reply. 

"  I  can  reffuse  my  darling  nothing,"  Rosina  responded,  with 
more  promptitude  than  orthography. 

"  God  bless  you,"  murmured  Matt,  kissing  the  letter.  "  I  be- 
lieve I  shall  love  you,  after  all." 


3BOOfc  iriF1T.— CHAPTER  I 

CONQUEROR     OR     CONQUERED  ? 

FORESIGHT  is  insight.  It  was  due  to  Matthew  Strang's  igno- 
rance of  life  and  of  himself  that  his  marriage  in  no  way  turned 
out  as  he  had  calculated.  Oh,  the  fatal  mistake  of  it,  perceived 
as  soon  as  it  was  too  late,  though  he  shrank  weakly  from  the 
perception,  afraid  to  face  the  chill,  blank  truth,  hoping  against 
hope  that  love  would  be  the  child  of  marriage.  Oh,  the  ghast- 
liness  of  being  chained  to  a  loving  woman  he  did  not  love, 
bound  by  law  and  honor  to  simulate  a  responsive  affection,  and 
to  hide  the  deadly  apathy  which  her  caresses  could  not  over- 
come. He  tried  hard  to  love  her,  calling  his  own  attention  to 
her  youth,  her  freshness,  her  prettiness,  her  flashes  of  expres- 
sion, making  the  most  of  every  hint  of  charm,  seeing  her  through 
a  wilful  glamour,  even  attempting  to  persuade  himself  that  she 
was  the  woman  of  his  dreams  ;  all  the  while  his  leaden  heart 
coldly  refusing  itself  to  the  hollow  pretence.  Before  the  mar- 
riage he  had  almost  felt  on  the  point  of  love ;  but  it  was  only, 
he  knew  later,  the  self-disguise  of  cupidity  and  mercenariness, 
though  no  doubt  a  measure  of  gratitude  had  helped  to  becloud 
his  vision.  In  his  bachelor  days  he  could  never  have  imagined 
such  indifference  to  any  woman.  Sometimes  he  wondered  if 
this  was  all  marriage  meant  to  any  man,  but  a  wistful  incredulity 
denied  him  the  consolation  of  acquiescence  in  a  common  lot. 
The  testimony  of  mankind  was  quite  other,  and  his  own  yearn- 
ing instinct  refused  to  look  upon  his  union  as  typical.  If  only 
she  had  been  a  little  more  intellectual,  less  limited  to  gossip 
about  servants  and  prices !  How  he  had  deceived  himself,  tak- 
ing the  sprightliness  of  a  young  girl  in  love,  the  coquettish 
gayety,  the  evanescent  brilliancy  of  a  bird  in  the  pairing  season, 


CONQUEROR  OR  CONQUERED?  309 

for  the  output  of  perennial  intellect  and  good-humor !  He  had 
lived  so  much  alone  with  his  dreams  that  he  had  fallen  out  of 
touch  with  humanity,  and  particularly  with  feminine  humanity. 
He  had  had  no  standard  of  comparison  by  which  to  gauge  her, 
and  once  united  to  her,  the  habitual  recluse  could  not  accommo- 
date himself  to  her  constant  companionship. 

What  an  irony  their  honey-moon  in  Paris,  in  Florence,  the  ar- 
dors of  artistic  renascence  yoked  with  the  blankness  of  boredom  ! 
Despite  Rosina's  affectionate  clinging  to  him,  and  her  almost  pa- 
thetic endeavor  to  admire  old  churches  and  dingy  picture-gal- 
leries, it  was  a  relief  to  both  when  she  at  last  acquiesced  in  his 
happy  idea  of  regarding  his  rounds  as  "  work,"  and,  under  the 
convoy  of  Billy,  beguiled  the  expectation  of  fonder  reunion  by 
the  more  exhilarating  spectacle  of  the  streets  and  the  endless 
glories  of  the  Bon  Marche.  And  very  soon  she  wearied  alto- 
gether of  foreign  places,  clamoring  to  be  settled  in  London, 
where  the  language  was  not  gibberish,  and  one  could  go  a- 
marketing  without  being  bamboozled  and  cut  off  from  bargain- 
ing. For  after  the  first  fervors  of  the  honey-moon  she  had  de- 
veloped that  instinct  for  petty  economy  which  had  amused  and 
charmed  him  when  he  had  gone  shopping  with  her  in  Halifax, 
but  which  now  fretted  him,  seeming  like  a  daily  reproach  for  all 
those  great  sums  her  acquisition  of  him  had  cost  her.  He  was 
glad  that  the  due  arrival  of  the  second  mysterious  instalment 
promised  to  the  Nova-Scotian  household  relieved  him  of  the 
painful  necessity  of  applying  to  her  on  its  behalf.  Unexpect- 
edly enough  this  sum  was  supplemented  by  a  dividend  of  a 
hundred  and  fifteen  dollars  paid  to  hirn,  after  he  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  matter,  by  the  trustee  in  Halifax  in  settlement  of 
his  claim  against  the  estate  of  the  Starsborough  ship-builder. 

In  vain  he  tried  to  interest  his  wife  in  books,  in  the  poems 
and  essays,  in  the  study  of  French  and  German,  into  which  he 
now  threw  himself  with  a  feverish  desire  for  culture.  In  vain 
he  tried  to  impart  to  her  his  vision  of  nature,  to  get  her  to 
observe  scenery  and  sunsets.  Colors  and  shades  were  only 
interesting  to  her  as  they  occurred  in  dress  materials.  Once 
when  they  stood  by  a  sea-beach  on  a  December  afternoon  under 
a  cold,  gray  sky,  and  Rosina  complained  of  the  dreariness  of 


310  THE    MASTER 

the  seascape,  he  had  attempted  to  show  her  how  beautiful  it 
really  was,  how  much  more  interesting  to  the  artistic  eye  than  a 
crude  sunlight  effect;  how  nearest  the  horizon  it  was  grayish 
steel-blue,  and  then  a  still  amber,  and  then  emerald  green,  and 
how  just  before  the  final  fringe  of  both  there  shone  a  band  of 
sparkling  amber,  grayed  by  cloud  -  reflections.  But  Rosina 
shivered,  and  refused  to  see  anything  but  a  chill  green  waste. 

She  would  not  even  allow  him  to  arrange  her  furniture,  and  a 
pair  of  colossal  pink  vases,  garishly  hand-painted  with  pastoral 
figures  (picked  up  "  a  bargain  "),  were  a  permanent  pain  to  him, 
spoiling  for  him  the  drawing-room  of  the  little  North  London 
house  with  the  rude  whitewashed  studio,  in  which  they  had 
settled  down  after  the  birth  of  their  first  child.  The  tempo- 
rary lull  that  attended  their  installation  in  British  domesticity 
was  succeeded  by  graver  frictions  when  Rosina  had  finished 
furnishing.  They  had  no  society ;  neither  of  the  couple  knew 
anybody  in  London,  and  the  husband  shrank  from  making 
friends,  constrained,  moreover,  by  his  art  to  a  solitary  way  of 
living.  Rosina,  who  before  her  child  demanded  her  care  had 
sat  to  him  out  of  pure  desire  to  be  with  him,  began  to  be 
jealous  of  the  models  who  replaced  her,  declaring  that  she  had 
had  no  conception  such  goings-on  were  a  part  of  art  or  she 
would  never  have  married  him. 

The  only  alleviation  of  his  numb  misery  was  his  ability  to 
paint  without  pecuniary  under-thought  the  picture  with  which  he 
was  to  storm  the  Academy,  to  throw  all  his  individuality  into  it. 
The  very  seclusion  of  his  life  favored  this  devotion  to  his  ideals. 

And  these  ideals  were  only  partially  those  of  his  celibate.  He 
had  been  swaying  to  and  fro  under  the  opposite  solicitations  of 
Idealism  and  Realism  ;  now  in  a  violent  upheaval,  his  sympathy 
with  modern  subjects  and  even  with  modern  methods  had  been 
submerged. 

On  the  Continent  for  the  first  time  he  came  into  contact  with 
the  Old  World.  London  had  been  to  him  as  modern  as  America, 
repeating  its  ideas  and  ideals,  but  in  France,  and  more  especially 
in  Italy,  the  mere  variation  of  tongues  helped  to  draw  him  into 
an  earlier  world,  co-operated  with  the  appeal  of  ancient  churches 
and  streets  and  palaces,  and  the  countless  treasure  of  ancient  Art. 


CONQUEROR  OR  CONQUERED?  311 

The  modern  world  grew  hateful  to  him,  and  he  absorbed  by 
affinity  the  ancient  and  the  mediaeval.  At  bottom  it  was  not  so 
much  the  modern  that  repelled  him  as  real  life,  and  it  was  not 
so  much  the  past  towards  which  he  yearned  as  towards  that 
timeless  realm  wherein  ideal  beauty  dwells.  The  past  was  at 
least  less  real  than  the  present.  Real  life  was  horrible,  and  mar- 
riage had  put  the  coping-stone  on  his  dissatisfaction  with  it. 
From  birth  to  death  it  was  embased  by  a  sordid  series  of  phys- 
ical processes.  Even  the  much-vaunted  love  was  hideous  at 
root.  Beauty  itself  was  never  really  perfect,  and  was  transient 
at  best,  while  the  beautiful  idea  that  lurked  in  nearly  every  hu- 
man face  and  figure  had  for  the  most  part  been  left  embryonic. 
Only  in  Art  could  the  imperfections  of  Nature  be  corrected — 
and  this  was  the  Artist's  mission,  not  to  imitate  Nature,  but  to 
transcend  her  ;  from  her  faulty  individuals,  frail  and  perishable, 
to  draw  types  of  perfection,  flawless,  immortal,  like  that  Venus 
de  Milo,  which  stood  at  the  end  of  the  Louvre  passage,  beautiful 
from  every  standpoint,  fixing  in  its  pensive  sweetness  of  spiritual- 
ized form  his  dream  of  Ideal  Womanhood;  or  like  that  mighty 
torso  of  winged  Victory  that  had  achieved  the  last  victory  over 
its  own  mutilation.  Real  life  was  Deacon  Hailey  and  his  mad 
mother  and  Billy  and  Rosina  and  his  uncle  and  the  grimy  denizens 
of  the  London  slums  and  the  blackguardly  crowd  at  the  Fleet 
Street  public-house  and  the  lewd  workmen  in  the  Starsborough 
ship-yard.  But  Art  was  Rosalind  and  Imogen,  Hamlet  and 
Ariel,  Don  Quixote  and  Beatrix  Esmond,  and  the  love  in  Shel- 
ley's lyrics,  and  the  music  of  Beethoven,  and  the  pictures  of 
Botticelli,  and  the  cold  white  statues  of  the  Greeks — that  imag- 
inary world  which  man's  soul  had  called  into  being  to  redress 
the  balance  of  the  Real.  It  was  Art  against  Nature  throughout 
— the  immortal  shadows  against  the  ephemeral  realities. 

"She  cannot  fade  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
Forever  wilt  thou  love  and  she  be  fair." 

And  so  for  the  "  real  atmosphere "  of  Cornpepper  he  no 
longer  cared :  what  mattered  the  realities  of  space  more  than 
those  of  time  to  the  soul,  emperor  of  its  own  fantasy  ?  All  this 
scientific  precision  after  which  he  had  been  hankering — was  it 


312  THE    MASTER 

not  irrelevant  to  Art  ?  The  Beautiful  was  the  Ideal ;  to  create 
the  Ideal,  the  Real  must  be  passed  through  the  crucible  of  the 
Artist's  soul.  The  Artist  was  the  true  creator.  In  him  Nature's 
yearning  to  beget  the  Beautiful  became  conscious.  She  her- 
self had  infinite  failures — ugly  moods,  fogs,  glooms,  skies  of  iron, 
seas  Df  tin.  And  feeling  all  this  instinctively  rather  than  by  a 
lucid  excogitation,  he  was  now  for  the  ideal,  for  the  romantic, 
for  the  religious  even,  for  anything  that  was  not  real,  that 
shut  out  the  unbeautiful  necessity,  as  those  glorious  stained 
windows  of  cathedrals,  blazing  with  saints,  shut  out  the  crude 
daylight  and  the  raw  air  of  reality,  filtering  the  garish  sunlight 
to  that  dim  religious  light  in  which  the  soul  could  see  best. 
Ah,  how  wisely  the  poor  human  soul  had  fenced  itself  in  against 
the  bleak  realities — even  as  the  body  had  housed  itself  against 
the  inhospitalities  of  Nature — painting  its  windows  with  beauti- 
ful dreams,  with  an  incarnate  Love  that  ruled  the  world,  and  an 
image  of  immaculate  Motherhood.  And  in  a  strange  hybrid, 
hazy  blend  of  Catholicism  and  Hellenism,  possible  only  to  an 
artist  who  sees  things  by  their  sensuous  outsides,  the  Venus 
de  Milo  and  the  Madonna  of  the  Italian  masters  were  to  him 
more  akin  by  beauty  than  divorced  by  dogma.  In  a  sense 
they  were  one — the  highest  types  of  Beauty  conceivable  by  the 
Pagan  and  Christian  ages,  so  akin  that  when  Botticelli  came  to 
draw  Venus,  as  in  his  "  Nascita  di  Venere,"  his  brush  fashioned 
a  meek  Miltonic  Eve,  prefiguring  the  Virgin  Mother,  while 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  in  his  Annunziazone  in  the  "  Pitti,"  had  given 
the  Virgin  Mother  almost  the  brooding  serenity  of  a  Greek 
goddess.  Ideal  Womanhood,  Ideal  Womanhood,  this  was  what 
poor  Matthew  Strang  seemed  to  find  in  either — ay,  and  even  in 
Perugino's  "  Magdalen,"  and  the  saying  of  Keats,  "  Beauty  is 
Truth,  Truth  Beauty,"  seemed  to  him  to  be  indeed  all  that 
mortals  needed  to  know. 

But  that  Pagan  serenity  which  had  produced  Greek  art 
could  not  be  his.  For  him  as  for  the  ages  the  first  sensuous 
joy  in  beauty  was  over.  And  what  appealed  even  more  than 
the  Greek  marbles  to  the  artist  who  had  set  out  from  his 
native  village  with  quick  blood,  worshipper  of  a  beautiful 
world,  was  that  subtler  art  which  expressed  rather  the  inad- 


CONQUEROR  OR  CONQUERED?  313 

equacy  than  the  perfection  of  life  ;  the  wistfulness  of  a  Botticelli 
Madonna,  the  unfathomable  smile  of  a  Leonardo  portrait,  the 
pensive  melancholy  of  Lorenzo  di  Credi's  "  Unknown  Youth  "  in 
the  Uffizi,  or  the  mystic  aspiration  of  the  monk  in  that  famous 
"  Concerto  di  Musica,"  and  inversely  Raphael's  lovelier  line  than 
Nature's,  and  Michael  Angelo's  with  its  more  majestic  sweep. 
He  longed  with  that  yearning,  with  which  the  boy  had  looked 
up  to  the  stars  in  the  midnight  forest,  for  God,  for  Christ,  for 
Apollo,  for  some  dream  of  whiteness  and  beauty,  for  some- 
thing that  persisted  beneath  all  the  purposeless  generations  of 
which  the  Louvre  held  record  in  those  cumbrous  relics  of 
vanished  civilization — Egyptian,  Phoenician,  Syrian,  Babylonian, 
Persian,  Chaldean  —  those  broken  shafts  of  pillars  that  had 
upheld  barbaric  temples,  those  friezes  that  had  adorned  the 
facades  of  palaces,  those  blurred  monuments  perpetuating  the 
victories  of  forgotten  dust,  those  faded  bass  -  reliefs  that  had 
pleased  the  lustful  eyes  of  nameless  kings,  enthroned  in  their 
gigantic  halls,  those  uncouth  torsos  of  bulls  and  sphinxes, 
emblems  of  a  vaster,  crueller  life.  Amid  the  flux  of  the  centu- 
ries the  visibles  of  Art,  the  invisibles  of  Religion — were  not 
these  the  only  true  Realities  ? 

Such  had  been  Matthew  Strang's  thoughts,  as  in  a  deep  silence 
he  walked  through  the  Louvre  with  Rosina,  a  silence  that  was  at 
its  deepest  when  he  responded  to  her  chatter.  She  hated  the  slip- 
pery parquet  and  the  dull  oil-colors  under  the  glazed  skylight, 
preferring  the  fresh  coloring  of  the  copies,  though  she  made  fun 
of  the  copyists  who  sat  so  patiently  on  their  stools.  What  queer 
men,  what  funny,  frumpy  girls,  what  strange  old  ladies !  And, 
look  !  there  was  a  young  woman  in  widows'  weeds,  painting  such 
a  cute  picture,  and — gracious  !  there  was  quite  a  young  girl  copy- 
ing a  naked  man — weren't  they  horrid,  the  French  ?  She  liked 
the  attendants'  cocked  hats  with  a  dash  of  gilt,  and  enjoyed  the 
desultory  crowd  of  perambulating  spectators,  that  ranged  from 
old  gentlemen  hobbling  along  on  sticks  to  artisans  in  red 
blouses  and  clayey  boots.  And  wouldn't  Matt  come  back  into 
the  jewelry  and  china  departments,  which  were  really  interest- 
ing ?  And  wasn't  the  heat  unbearable  ?  It  was  her  restlessness 
that  made  her  husband  quit  this  Paris  which  fascinated  him, 


314  THE    MASTER 

this  beautiful  city,  with  whose  artistic  activity,  divined  from 
the  mere  architecture  of  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts,  he  had  had  no 
opportunity  to  get  into  intimate  touch ;  for  he  could  not  even 
come  across  Herbert,  whom  he  had  rather  hoped  to  find  still 
there,  a  cicerone  to  initiate  him  into  the  art-coteries  of  Paris.  In 
Florence,  where  they  went  for  the  winter,  Rosina  was  even  more 
restless.  The  towered  palaces,  the  Duomo,  and  the  gracious  Cam- 
paniles, the  gardens,  the  enchanting  environs,  and  all  the  stock 
wonders  of  the  place,  had  none  but  a  superficial  interest  for  her ; 
they  were  exhausted  at  first  sight;  amid  the  marble  calm  of 
colonnades  she  even  regretted  the  liveliness  of  the  Boulevards. 
And  the  climate,  too,  was  worse  than  that  of  Paris ;  her  grum- 
blings were  perpetual.  To  pass  from  the  warm  piazza  or 
promenade  to  the  biting  wind  of  the  narrow  streets  was  not 
only  uncomfortable,  but  made  it  a  problem  how  to  dress.  And, 
indeed,  Matt  himself  suffered  keenly  from  the  cold ;  though 
there  was  a  small  brass  heating  apparatus  in  the  centre  of  the 
gallery,  it  scarcely  did  more  than  keep  his  colors  from  con- 
gealing. For  he  was  copying  Botticelli's  "  Virgin  with  the 
Child  and  Angels."  Yes,  Botticelli  had  become  his  master — 
Botticelli,  whom  at  first  sight  in  the  National  Gallery  he  had 
rejected  for  insufficient  draughtsmanship,  but  all  of  whose 
naive  exaggerations,  of  hands  or  feet  or  necks,  he  now  credited 
to  artistic  intention,  prepared  to  maintain  from  loving  study  of 
his  delicately  luminous  canvases  and  his  blond  ethereal  fres- 
cos that  the  Master's  drawing  had  only  repudiated  the  bonds 
of  the  Real  in  quest  of  a  higher  beauty,  a  more  gracious  har- 
mony of  curves,  even  as  his  coloring  had  refined  away  that 
oleaginous  quality  which  a  Rubens  found  in  human  flesh.  To 
brood  over  a  Madonna  of  Botticelli  or  of  Filippo  Lippi,  Mat- 
thew Strang  would  turn  from  the  women  of  Rubens  or  the 
young  men  of  Titian  or  the  children  of  Velasquez  or  Rem- 
brandt's old  men.  Though  at  the  sight  of  "  Les  Glaneurs  "  of 
Millet  he  felt  a  lurking  sympathy  in  his  submerged  self,  he 
preferred  that  morning  landscape  of  Corot,  in  which  bodice- 
less  beauties  dance  round  trees  as  half -dressed  women  never  did 
in  any  period  of  French  history.  He  found  a  winter  scene 
of  Van  Ostade's  none  the  less  charming  because  the  figures 


CONQUEROR  OR  CONQUERED?  315 

were  not  enveloped,  and  the  lights  were  untruly  set  off  by 
bituminous  shadows.  He  was  in  the  mood  in  which  even  the 
gilded  rose-nudity  of  the  eighteenth  century  seemed  precious. 
Amid  the  infinitude  of  Art  that  surrounded  him  now,  Corn- 
pepper's  cocksureness  seemed  to  him  as  futile  as  it  had  already 
appeared  amid  the  infinity  of  Nature.  And  all  the  Masters 
were  so  akin  that  evolution  by  revolution  seemed  less  credible 
than  in  the  smoky  atmosphere  of  Azure  Art  studios.  Modern 
subject?  Had  they  not  all  done  the  contemporary,  had  the 
Dutch  done  anything  else  ?  Impressionism  ?  In  so  far  as  it 
meant  a  free  brush-work,  was  not  Rembrandt  an  Impressionist  ? 
Was  not  Velasquez  in  his  later  manner  ? 

His  first  picture,  then,  need  not  be  revolutionary  in  technique, 
but  it  must  be  more  imaginative  than  the  bulk  of  English  work 
in  the  Academy  of  his  day,  more  emotional.  Photography  had 
reduced  realism  to  absurdity,  had  proved  that  Art  lay  in  the 
transfusion  of  Nature  through  the  artist's  soul.  And  the  es- 
sence of  all  art  was  emotion,  feeling.  The  work  of  Art  was 
but  the  medium  by  which  the  artist  passed  on  his  emotion  to 
the  spectator,  his  joy  in  beauty,  his  feeling  for  nature,  his  sad- 
ness, his  aspiration,  even  his  view  of  life.  Because  emotion 
could  be  conveyed  by  literature  and  music,  there  was  no  reason 
why  these  should  have  the  preference  in  cases  where  painting 
was  equal  to  conveying  it,  too.  Without  emotion  a  picture  was 
null  and  void;  technique  by  itself  could  give  works  of  craft, 
never  works  of  Art.  On  the  other  hand,  to  have  the  artistic  emo- 
tion without  the  technique  necessary  to  pass  it  on  to  the  spec- 
tator was  to  be  artistic,  but  not  an  artist. 

The  choice  of  a  subject  gave  him  much  harassing  hesitation ; 
it  brought  delicious  peace  merely  to  make  his  final  decision 
amid  all  the  whirl  of  ideas  that  pressed  upon  him.  He  would 
found  his  picture  on  those  beautiful  lines  in  Matthew  Arnold's 
"  Forsaken  Merman." 

"  Once  she  sat  with  you  and  me 
On  a  red-gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 
And  the  youngest  sat  on  her  knee. 
She  combed  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it  well, 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off  bell. 


316  THE    MASTER 

She  sighed,  she  look'd  up  through  the  clear  green  sea ; 

She  said :  '  I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 

In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 

'Twill  be  Easter-time  in  the  world — ah  me ! 

And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman !  here  with  thee.' " 

The  subject  seemed  to  him  made  to  his  hand.  It  would  en- 
able him  to  fulfil  his  young  ambitious  dream  of  reconciling  the 
decorative  with  the  idea-picture;  the  composition  should  weave 
a  beautiful  pattern,  and  the  coloring  a  scheme  of  harmony,  and 
yet  the  picture  should  make  a  distinct  emotional  appeal.  A 
woman,  with  a  soul,  throned  amid  a  lower  race,  yet  yearning  for 
the  higher  spiritual  fervors — that  was  an  idea  which  lent  itself 
beautifully  to  pictorial  expression  :  a  literary  idea  doubtless,  but 
yet  a  visual,  too,  so  that  there  was  no  need  even  to  label  it  with 
the  poet's  lines  which  had  suggested  it ;  it  should  be  self-explan- 
atory. And  what  sensuous  glow  in  the  accessories — the  clear, 
green  sea-depths,  the  red-gold  throne,  the  child's  flowing  hair ! 
The  thought  of  them  was  like  wine  in  his  veins.  He  set  to  work 
eagerly  on  a  large  scale,  informed  by  his  contemplation  of  the 
Old  Masters  with  big  ambitions — to  do,  not  the  little  lyrics  that 
satisfied  contemporary  cocksureness,  but  a  great  sustained  poem. 

What  pleasures  and  pains  the  work  brought  him !  The 
thrill  of  conception  was  deadened  by  inadequacy  of  execution, 
to  revive  when  some  charm  of  color  and  line  flowered  under 
happy  accident.  He  had  great  joy  in  doing  the  heart  of  the 
sea  with  its  "  deep,  divine,  dark  dayshine  " — it  was  his  sym- 
pathy with  this  marine  fairy-land  that  had  partly  inspired 
his  readiness  to  do  old  Coble's  misleading  ensign  of  the 
shark  and  the  sponge-diver.  Around  the  red-gold  throne  of 
the  Merman's  bride  that  stood  on  the  sand -strewn  sea- bed 
the  submarine  flora  bloomed  in  strange,  fantastic  arabesques 
and  subtle  shades  of  amber  and  gray  and  white  and  crimson, 
and  through  the  green  translucent  water,  spent  sunbeams  quiv- 
ered and  gleamed,  and  vague  tropical  fish  shot  lovely  notes  of 
color,  and  a  sea-snake  coiled  its  glittering  mail ;  and  there  were 
strange  pied  amorphous  creatures  and  moss-like  corallines  and 
red-branching  madrepores  and  gleaming  shells,  and  mother-o'- 
pearl  touched  with  purple  and  azure,  yet  all  strictly  subordi- 


CONQUEROR  OR  CONQUERED?  317 

nated  to  the  two  central  figures  of  the  composition  —  the 
throned  woman  with  her  youngest  on  her  knee,  which,  despite 
the  nudity  and  the  strange  accessories,  took  on  a  curious  like- 
ness to  the  Madonna  and  Child.  The  canvas  indeed  showed 
the  influence  upon  him  of  those  wistful  Madonnas  he  had 
pored  over  so  wistfully  ;  the  cold,  strange  eyes  of  the  golden- 
haired  child  were  in  the  imaginative  vein  of  the  poem,  the  form 
of  the  throned  woman  was  inspired  by  merely  Pagan  ideals  of 
beauty  ;  and  yet  the  yearning  in  her  uplifted  eyes  for  the  world 
of  prayer  whose  sound  floated  mystically  down  to  her  was  the 
same  that  showed  in  the  eyes  of  the  Holy  Mother.  But  this 
analogy  was  not  consciously  in  the  artist's  design,  though  it  had 
doubtless  influenced  his  choice  of  subject,  nor,  though  he  had 
certainly  had  in  mind  to  suggest  through  her  the  yearning  of 
humanity  for  a  higher  world,  did  he  connect  his  work  with 
the  school  of  Symbolists  which  was  just  arising  across  the  Chan- 
nel, and  which  was  capable  of  finding  in  the  dominant  green 
of  his  sea  the  color-symbol  of  Resurrection.  Even  the  dead 
face  which  he  had  placed  in  a  corner  in  the  foreground,  though 
it  might  well  seem  symbolic  of  the  tragedy  lurking  amid  this 
sensuous  beauty,  was  in  truth  only  the  dead  face  of  his  father, 
and  he  had  put  it  in  less  for  its  symbolic  significance  or  its 
realistic  appositeness  than  from  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  have 
it  there,  as  though  thus  to  dispossess  his  mind  of  that  ancient 
haunting  image  which  the  continuous  thought  of  the  sea  had 
inevitably  brought  up  again.  He  told  himself  it  was  but  nat- 
ural some  drowned  face  should  bob  ghastly  in  this  submarine 
paradise,  but  in  reality  he  felt  a  morbid  craving  to  put  it  there, 
to  have  something  in  his  picture  for  himself  alone,  that  no  one 
else  in  the  great  wide  world  could  possibly  understand  to  the  full. 
For  the  rest  the  picture  cost  him  infinite  trouble,  for  his 
genius  was  an  incapacity  for  not  taking  infinite  pains.  The 
poetry  of  paint  is  achieved  by  the  prose  of  work,  and  as  despite 
his  Romanticism  his  hankerings  for  the  Real  persisted,  his  am- 
bitious conception  entailed  much  preliminary  study,  and  the 
setting  up  in  his  studio  of  a  little  sea-water  aquarium,  in  the 
construction  of  which  his  ancient  experience  at  the  Stepney 
bird- stuffing  establishment  in  making  cases  of  shells  with 


318  THE    MASTER 

mosses  and  sea-weeds  and  coral  came  in  unexpectedly  useful. 
But  lie  could  not  get  a  satisfactory  model  for  his  principal 
figure,  and  curiously  enough  her  left  hand  gave  him  more  vexa- 
tion than  anything  else  in  this  complex  composition.  He  could 
not  settle  its  pose,  scraped  out  finger  after  finger  with  an  old 
sailor's  knife,  relic  of  his  mackerel -fishing  voyage,  specially 
ground  down,  painted  out  the  whole  hand  fourteen  times,  and 
at  last  in  despair  weakly  solved  the  problem  by  hiding  the 
hand  altogether.  Two  days  later,  working  on  the  scales  of  the 
sea-snake  that  basked  sinuously  at  the  woman's  feet,  he  sud- 
denly had  a  last  furious  dash  at  the  refractory  hand.  This 
time  it  came  right  and  brought  rejoicing.  Sometimes  he 
seemed  at  the  mercy  of  these  haphazard  inspirations ;  what 
came,  came,  quite  irrespective  of  conscious  will  and  training. 
"  Als  ixh  Xan  "  (as  I  can),  the  old  Flemish  motto  which  Van 
Eyck  put  to  his  work,  seemed  to  him  apt  for  any  painter. 

When  he  began  "  The  Merman's  Bride "  he  was  already 
much  more  exigent  towards  himself  than  in  his  younger  days ; 
self-criticism  had  checked  that  fearless  execution  ;  by  the  time 
he  had  finished  his  picture,  those  very  months  of  steady  work, 
rigorously  revised,  had  raised  his  ideal  higher,  so  that  though 
the  actual  picture  pretty  well  corresponded  with  his  first  concep- 
tion, it  was  still  far  removed  from  his  later  standard.  The  ex- 
pression of  the  woman's  face  seemed  especially  inadequate,  and 
as  great  actresses  do  not  sit  as  models,  and  the  artist  has  to 
imagine  emotional  expression,  he  felt  again,  despite  his  Roman- 
ticism, that  he  had  missed  the  subtleties  of  reality.  But  every 
genus  of  art  has  to  sacrifice  something,  and  sending-in  day  was 
drawing  swiftly  nigh,  and  he  had  to  lay  down  his  brushes  at 
last,  and  through  his  frame-maker  despatch  the  canvas  to  Bur- 
lington House,  and  await  with  what  composure  he  could  the 
verdict  that  should  bring  him  the  recognition  he  had  struggled 
for  during  such  long  tedious  years.  Now  that  the  absorbing 
task  was  over,  he  had  time  to  think  of  its  reward,  to  dwell  on 
the  thought  of  recognition,  of  Fame,  the  one  thing  on  earth 
that  still  loomed  before  him,  enshrouded  in  vague,  misty  splen- 
dors. In  a  world  of  illusions,  this  was  the  solid  happiness  it 
might  yet  be  his  to  grasp. 


CONQUEROR  OR  CONQUERED?  319 

This  last  illusion  was  not  destined  to  be  dissipated  yet 
awhile.  He  was  sitting  at  the  breakfast-table  when  he  received 
a  blue  card  inviting  him  to  take  back  his  picture.  Burning 
with  revolt  and  despair,  he  had  to  strive  to  appear  calm,  what 
time  Rosina  was  unfolding  a  tale  of  woe  concerning  the  maid- 
of-all-work,  whom  she  had  detected  throwing  away  half-burned 
coals  into  the  dust-hole.  That,  she  reiterated  monotonously, 
explained  the  mysteriously  rapid  disappearance  of  the  coals — 
over  a  ton  since  quarter-day.  An  investigation  of  the  dust-hole 
had  revealed  a  veritable  coal-mine.  It  was  one  of  the  most 
curious  characteristics  of  Rosina  that,  with  all  her  hardness,  she 
flinched  mentally  before  her  servants,  pouring  out  her  grievances 
against  them  when  they  were  out  of  ear-shot,  so  that  her  hus- 
band suffered  vicariously  for  their  sins  of  omission  or  commis- 
sion. Usually  he  listened  to  her  silently  with  the  courteous  def- 
erence he  would  have  shown  a  guest,  never  provoked  to  an  angry 
retort  save  by  her  absurd  objections  to  his  models.  He  had  aban- 
doned as  hopeless  the  effort  to  unite  their  souls.  But  to-day  he 
had  no  option  but  to  cap  her  tragic  narrative  by  telling  her  of  his 
disappointment.  The  news  excited  her  not  to  sympathy  with  his 
aspersed  art,  but  to  reproachful  alarm  for  his  pecuniary  future. 

This  was  the  last  straw.  He  might  have  stood  out  against 
the  Academy,  exhibiting  elsewhere,  and  gradually  building  up 
an  outside  reputation  ;  but  the  pecuniary  independence  to  enable 
him  to  do  this,  which  had  been  the  main  motive  of  his  marriage, 
was  the  very  thing  that  he  now  saw  he  must  abandon.  In  his 
secret  paroxysms  of  resentment — more  against  himself  than 
against  her — it  became  increasingly  plain  to  him  that  he  could 
not  live  on  her  money  ;  that  were  intolerable  to  his  reawakened 
manhood.  He  must  make  a  financial  success  on  his  own  account; 
he  must  become  independent  of  her  at  any  cost  to  Art.  His  en- 
tire preconception  of  his  future  had  broken  down,  his  marriage 
a  failure  from  the  financial  point  of  view  as  from  every  other. 
Instead  of  having  emancipated  himself  from  the  necessity  of  a 
monetary  success,  he  had  made  life  impossible  without  it.  Well, 
he  would  compromise ;  he  would  recoil  to  leap  the  better ;  he 
would  do  what  the  public  wanted,  and  then,  having  secured  its 
attention,  he  would  do  what  he  wanted. 


320  THE    MASTER 

He  went  to  the  Academy  and  to  the  Grosvcnor  Gallery,  he 
studied  the  most  popular  pictures  of  his  day,  and  in  a  couple  of 
large  canvases — one  domestic,  the  other  Biblical — set  himself 
to  outdo  them  in  anecdotage  and  obviousness  of  technique. 

In  a  passion  of  irony  he  half  parodied  his  own  picture  of 
"  The  Merman's  Bride  "  in  an  idyllic  interior  called  "  Mother- 
hood," representing  a  mother  holding  up  a  little  girl,  who  in 
her  turn  nursed  a  doll.  Rosina  sat  for  this  to  save  expense, 
her  own  little  girl  being  now  weaned.  The  other  picture  was  a 
"  Vashti,"  and  for  the  repudiated  queen  did  Rosina  pose  like- 
wise, and  with  unwonted  interest  in  her  husband's  work. 

Both  pictures  were  cleverly  painted,  for  Matthew  Strang 
strove  to  atone  for  his  lack  of  interest  in  his  subjects  by  pain- 
ful impeccability  of  technique,  and  to  Rosina's  joy  both  won  ac- 
ceptance from  the  Hanging  Committee,  though  at  the  eleventh 
hour — on  the  Saturday  night  before  Varnishing  Day — husband 
and  wife  were  alike  disappointed  to  receive  an  intimation  that, 
through  lack  of  space,  only  the  smaller — "  Motherhood  " — could 
be  hung. 

Despite  all  his  contempt  for  his  picture  and  for  the  Academy, 
it  was  a  tingling  sensation  to  move  amid  the  crowd  of  artists  on 
Varnishing  Day,  and  to  see  some  whose  serious  faces  he  re- 
membered noting  on  the  platform  on  that  memorable  "  Gold 
Medal  Night "  pause  before  his  picture  in  admiration  of  the 
vigorous  brush-work.  This  was  a  sign  of  success  he  was  des- 
tined to  experience  in  far  greater  measure  the  following  year, 
but  the  keenness  of  the  thrill  could  never  be  matched  again. 

And  when  "  Motherhood  "  was  mentioned  in  the  papers,  and 
in  the  early  days  of  the  Exhibition  he  watched  fashionably  clad 
ladies  gather  in  front  of  it  to  commend  the  "  sweetly  pretty  " 
child  and  its  touching  foreshadowing  of  maternity,  Matthew 
Strang  found  himself  insensibly  beginning  to  partake  in  the 
general  admiration ;  and  with  that  strain  of  weakness  which 
London  had  exposed  in  him  from  the  first,  he  was  tickled  by 
the  praise  of  these  pretty  women  with  their  rustle  of  silks  and 
their  atmosphere  of  scent  and  culture,  and  his  American  birth 
subtly  lent  added  spice  to  his  sensation,  in  the  thought  of  con- 
quering with  his  rude  home-born  genius  these  votaries  of  an  ele- 


CONQUEROR  OR  CONQUERED  ?  321 

gant  civilization.  He  was  quite  annoyed  when  he  heard  of 
Morrison's  mot,  that  the  doll  was  hit  off  to  the  life,  but  the  other 
two  figures  were  wooden.  But  it  was  not  till  "  Motherhood  " 
sold  for  two  hundred  pounds  that  the  process  of  corruption 
really  began  to  set  in. 

The  buyer — a  provincial  cotton-spinner  in  town  for  his  holi- 
day— wished  to  sit  for  his  portrait.  The  painter  did  not  like  to 
ask  him  to  the  whitewashed  studio.  He  told  Rosina  they  must 
move  to  a  better  neighborhood.  The  economical  Rosina  would 
not  consent  to  quit  a  quarter  where  rates  and  provisions  were 
low,  and  where  she  had  by  this  time  acquired  several  cronies 
equally  martyred  by  their  maids-of-all-work,  so  ultimately  he 
took  a  larger  studio  in  a  more  fashionable  district,  going  to  his 
work  every  day,  like  a  clerk  to  his  office,  relieved  from  his 
wife's  overpowering  proximity,  and  from  her  personal  vision  of 
his  models  coming  and  going,  though  her  morbid  suspicion  was 
always  ready  to  flare  up.  Thus  the  estrangement  had  begun. 
People  sent  him  cards,  not  knowing  he  was  married ;  after 
some  embarrassed  refusals  he  weakly  accepted,  without  ex- 
planation, an  invitation  to  dinner — unable  to  decline  it  grace- 
fully, and  knowing  Rosina  unsuited  to  the  company — and  his 
reticence  made  subsequent  explanation  more  and  more  difficult. 
After  a  still  greater  success  in  the  next  Academy,  with  an  only 
less  conventional  picture,  he  was  caught  in  a  fashionable  whirl 
of  work  and  social  engagements,  finding  commission  after  com- 
mission thrust  upon  him,  driven  to  hasty  production  of  impos- 
ing compositions  to  preserve  his  place  in  the  rapidly  recurrent 
Academy  and  other  Exhibitions,  and  always  postponing  the  time 
when  he  would  start  upon  the  real  artistic  work  of  his  life,  when 
he  should  have  accumulated  enough  money  to  give  him  a  couple 
of  years  of  freedom  for  independent  Art,  for  that  fearless  ex- 
pression of  his  own  individuality  which  alone  makes  Art,  which 
alone  adds  aught  to  the  world's  treasure  of  Beauty  by  contrib- 
uting a  new  individual  vision  of  the  Beautiful,  and  which,  so 
far  from  being  demanded  by  the  paying  public,  must  be  a  reve- 
lation of  unknown  riches. 

A  plethora  of  portrait  commissions  was  not  conducive  to  per- 
sonal Art;  people  were  much  more  clamorous  for  the  likeness 
21 


322  THE    MASTER 

than  in  the  days  of  Sir  Joshua  before  photography  had  been 
invented,  and  every  artist's  best  portraits  were  always  those  un- 
paid, unchallenged  portraits  of  his  parents  and  friends — unflat- 
tered,  yet  touched  with  the  higher  beauty  of  truth.  And  por- 
traits stood  in  the  way  of  more  complex  work,  though  they  got 
one  a  cheap  reputation  as  a  stylist.  But  there  was  a  great  run 
on  Matthew  Strang  for  portraits ;  almost  as  much  as  on  one  of 
his  fellow-sufferers  for  marbles.  The  public  would  scarcely 
have  anything  else,  and  the  voice  of  the  public  is  the  voice  of 
the  purse. 

By  fits  and  snatches  he  made  attempts  to  express  himself,  but 
he  never  had  time  to  find  out  what  "  himself  "  was.  Sometimes, 
in  a  reversion  to  one  of  his  earlier  manners,  he  thought  he  want- 
ed to  express  sensation,  to  transfer  to  the  spectator  of  his  land- 
scape the  sensation  the  original  had  given  him,  and  from  his 
country  visits  he  would  come  back  with  studies  of  strange  blue 
moonlight  effects  on  cliffs,  or  weird  dark  seas,  destined  never  to 
be  worked  up.  He  began  a  realistic  picture  of  a  winter  view 
from  Primrose  Hill,  with  brownish  trees  in  the  foreground  and 
gray  in  the  background,  and  a  white  misty  townlet  to  the  left ; 
but,  fluctuating  again,  he  abandoned  it  for  an  attempt  to  do  the 
lyric  of  the  brush,  to  express,  as  in  balanced  metres,  harmonies 
of  tree  and  sky  and  water,  and  this,  again,  was  thrown  aside 
for  the  picture  of  "  Ideal  Womanhood,"  which,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  a  beautiful  woman's  rebuke,  he  had  felt  was  the  real 
"  himself  "  it  behooved  him  to  express.  But  the  beautiful  wom- 
an's passage  across  his  horizon  had  been  momentary,  and  so 
even  this  piece  of  imaginative  art  had  been  finished  hurriedly 
under  the  pressure  of  other  work.  And  thus  the  years  flew  by 
like  months,  with  incredible  velocity.  He  could  not  escape 
from  the  net-work  of  engagements  he  had  helped  to  weave,  nor 
did  he  always  desire  to.  There  was  a  circumlapping  consola- 
tion about  the  applause  of  the  public,  though  it  did  not  warm 
him.  He  found  a  bitter  satisfaction,  as  of  revenge,  in  the 
smiles  of  society  dames,  though  he  did  not  court  them.  He 
took  no  pleasure  in  the  personal  paragraphs  and  the  notices  of 
his  work,  though  he  knew  they  were  necessary  to  his  prices, 
and  though  he  had  no  more  liking  for  the  severe  estimates  of 


CONQUEROR  OR  CONQUERED?  323 

the  few  who  would  have  none  of  him.  The  breach  with  his 
wife  widened  imperceptibly,  half  involuntarily,  though  he  was 
passively  glad  when  she  was  not  with  him  to  complicate  his  life 
with  her  bourgeois  ways,  with  her  vulgar  outlook. 

He  was  driven  to  a  more  pretentious  studio,  which  had  some- 
times to  be  the  scene  of  responsive  hospitalities,  and  which 
raised  his  prices.  He  fell  into  a  semi-bachelor  life.  Late  even- 
ing parties,  early  morning  rides  in  the  Park,  visits  for  pleasure 
or  portrait-painting  or  decoration  to  country  houses  (where  his 
early  familiarity  with  rod  and  gun  gave  him  a  valuable  air  of 
autochthonic  aristocracy),  excursions  to  Goodwood,  to  Henley, 
sketching  tours,  all  tended  to  separate  him  from  his  wife,  till  at 
last  an  almost  complete  separation  had  grown  up,  so  gradually 
that,  except  for  her  spasms  of  jealousy,  Rosina  seemed  almost 
to  have  become  reconciled  to  it  in  view  of  the  popular  success, 
the  inflow  of  money,  and  the  eternal  economy  of  Camden  Town, 
and  instead  of  resenting  his  absence,  to  have  come  to  welcom- 
ing his  presence.  When,  on  rare  gala  occasions,  he  took  her 
out,  the  places  she  loved  were  those  which  no  fashionable  foot 
ever  trod;  and  as  the  couple  wandered — an  obscure  matrimonial 
molecule  among  the  holiday  masses — he  was  not  sorry  that  his 
juvenile  idea  of  fame  as  a  blazoning  vade  mecum  was  only  one  of 
the  many  illusions  of  youth.  And  so  none  of  the  scented  chatter- 
ing crowd  that  gathered  on  Show  Sunday  before  his  pictures  or 
his  refreshments  had  any  inkling  of  the  more  legitimate  menage 
in  the  less  fashionable  quarter.  He  absolved  his  occasional 
qualms  of  conscience  by  lavishing  his  earnings  on  her,  which 
she  hoarded  —  though  he  knew  it  not — partly  from  instinct, 
partly  from  a  superstitious  dread  of  a  catastrophe  when  his 
hand  should  fail  or  her  shares  fall  to  zero.  Too  late  he  com- 
prehended the  hardness  in  money  matters  that  had  been  at  the 
root  of  her  resentment  against  the  defalcating  Frenchman,  and 
it  was  to  spare  her  feelings,  as  well  as  to  preserve  peace,  that 
he  said  never  a  word  to  her  about  the  great  sums  with  which 
he  gladdened  the  Nova-Scotian  household. 

Not  that  Rosina  knew  much  of  his  other  affairs.  In  truth, 
she  knew  very  little  of  her  husband's  life,  nor  by  how  vast  a 
sweep  it  circumscribed  her  own.  She  knew  he  had  to  be  away 


324  THE    MASTER 

from  her  a  very  great  deal,  that  he  had  to  stay  in  the  country 
to  paint  great  people ;  she  was  vaguely  aware  that  the  necessi- 
ties of  his  profession  made  a  wide  sociality  profitable.  She 
had  been  once  or  twice  to  peep  at  his  studio,  horrified  by  the 
grandeur,  and  only  consoled  by  the  demonstration  that  its  cost 
was  repaid  in  the  prices,  like  the  luxurious  fittings  of  the  shops 
in  the  Holloway  Road.  But  her  imagination  lacked  the  materi- 
als to  construct  a  vision  of  the  whirlpool  which  had  sucked  him 
away  from  her;  her  reading  was  limited  to  a  weekly  newspaper 
in  which  his  name  seldom  appeared.  And  he,  in  his  mental 
isolation  from  her,  found  scant  self-reproach  for  his  silence  ; 
reserve  seemed  more  natural  than  communicativeness.  She 
could  never  know  the  doings  of  his  soul,  his  thoughts  were  not 
her  thoughts,  he  had  given  up  the  attempt  at  communion,  the 
effort  to  teach  her  to  know  his  real  self ;  why  should  he  be  less 
reticent  concerning  his  outward  movements,  his  superficial  self? 
He  was  aloof  from  her  spiritually ;  beside  this,  his  material  sep- 
aration from  her  was  insignificant.  The  children — a  girl  of 
seven  and  a  boy  of  nearly  four — were  no  bonds  of  union.  The 
elder,  christened  Clara,  after  Rosina's  aunt,  was  sharp  and  lively 
enough,  but  given  to  passionate  sulking ;  the  younger — called 
after  his  grandfather,  David — was  a  lymphatic,  colorless  young- 
ster, sickly  and  rather  slow-witted,  with  something  of  Billy's 
pathos  in  his  large  gray  eyes.  Their  father  had  tried  hard  to 
love  them,  as  he  had  tried  to  love  their  mother,  and  had  taken 
a  certain  proprietary  interest  in  their  infantile  graces,  and  in  the 
engaging  ways  of  early  childhood,  but  the  claims  of  his  Art 
left  them  in  the  mother's  hands,  and  the  older  they  grew  the 
less  he  grew  to  feel  them  his.  Neither  Clara  nor  David  had 
as  yet  displayed  any  scintilla  of  artistic  instinct.  When  he 
went  home  he  usually  had  something  for  them  in  his  pocket,  as 
he  would  have  had  for  the  children  of  an  acquaintance,  but  they 
gave  him  no  parental  thrill. 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  studio  bell  had  tinkled  so  often  that  afternoon  that 
Mr.  Matthew  Strang  refused  to  budge  from  the  comfortable 
arm-chair  in  which  he  sat  smoking  his  cigarette  and  reading 
the  Nineteenth  Century  after  the  labors  of  the  day.  The  model 
had  sipped  her  tea,  taken  her  silver,  and  was  gone  to  resume 
her  well-earned  place  among  the  clothed  classes,  and  the  hard- 
working artist  was  in  no  mood  to  open  his  door  to  the  latest 
bell-ringer. 

Probably  it  was  only  another  model  to  inquire  if  he  had  any 
work,  or  to  apprise  him  of  a  change  of  address  or  of  ward- 
robe ;  or  else  it  was  a  soi-disant  decayed  artist,  who  had  tramped 
all  the  way  from  Camberwell,  ignorant  that  his  old  patron  had 
moved  from  the  studio  a  year  ago ;  or  mayhap  it  was  a  child. 
He  had  beeji  much  worried  by  children  lately,  since  he  had 
picked  up  a  couple  in  the  gutter  and  placed  them  on  the 
"  throne."  The  dingy  court  where  the  fortunate  twain  resided 
had  been  agitated  from  attic  to  cellar ;  the  entire  juvenile  popu- 
lation had  pulled  his  bell  in  quest  of  easy  riches ;  mothers  had 
quarrelled  with  one  another  over  the  chances  of  their  young 
ones ;  the  whole  court  had  been  torn  with  intestine  war. 

Ting-a-ting — ting-a-ti  ng — ti  n  g — tin  g — ting — 

The  person  had  rung  again,  more  ferociously.  Ah,  it  must 
be  that  interminable  Mrs.  Filbert  back  again.  Well,  let  her  ring 
on,  the  old  jade.  Rather  an  hour  of  tintinnabulation  than  ten 
minutes  of  her  tongue.  Had  his  man  been  in,  he  might  him- 
self have  been  "out,"  but  he  could  scarcely  appear  at  the  door 
and  deny  himself.  Her  shrill  falsetto  voice  resurged  in  the 
ear  of  memory,  offering  nude  photos  from  Paris  at  exorbitant 


326  THE    MASTER 

prices,  or  lists  of  models  full  of  inaccurate  addresses,  or  rare 
costumes,  most  of  which  could  be  picked  up  at  any  old  clo' 
shop.  He  smiled,  recalling  one  of  these  costumes — something 
like  a  fishing-net  with  holes  about  an  inch  across.  "  This  is 
Greek,  and  shows  the  figure."  Certainly  it  showed  the  figure, 
he  thought,  smiling  more  broadly.  And  now  he  remembered — 
she  had  threatened  to  bring  her  younger  sister.  "  And  I  have 
also  a  little  sister.  I  don't  know  if  you  paint  pretty  girls," 
here  his  memory  inserted  a  giggle.  "  She  sits  for  modern  dress 
or  the  head.  Not  for  the  figure.  Of  course  she  doesn't  mind 
a  light  costume,  something  diaphanous.  Though  I'm  not  quite 
sure  she  has  any  time  left.  She  is  always  with  Mr.  Rapper, 
who  does  those  pastels  for  the  Goupil  Art  Gallery.  He  is  so 
very  sweet  to  her.  She  goes  to  the  theatre  and  dines  with  him. 
I  sit  myself  sometimes,  though  you  mightn't  think  so  "  (giggle). 
"  So  of  course  she  can't  sit  in  the  evening,  in  case  you  want 
her  for  black  and  white."  ("  Just  like  a  woman,"  he  reflected, 
cynically,  "too  careless  to  take  the  trouble  to  discover  that  I 
am  far  too  eminent  for  black  and  white.")  "  I  know  I'm 
dressed  carelessly  just  now,  I  really  must  be  more  careful" 
(giggle).  "  I  have  an  Empire  gown  to  sit  in,  very  sweet.  I 
will  bring  it  you  to  look  at." 

Ting-a-ting-ting-a-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting. 

Yes,  it  was  the  sweet  Empire  gown  she  was  bringing  him  if 
it  was  not  her  sweeter  sister.  His  experienced  eye  foresaw  the 
Empire  gown — something  cut  by  herself  out  of  muslin,  with 
an  old  yellow  silk  sash.  He  let  the  last  vibration  of  the 
bell-wire  die  away ;  the  creature  would  know  now  he  was  not 
in.  The  smoke  curled  in  a  blue-gray  cloud  about  his  head,  as, 
looking  up  from  the  page  of  the  magazine,  he  gazed  dreamily 
at  his  half-finished  picture,  standing  on  the  easel  at  the  other 
extremity  of  the  great  luxurious  room,  where  the  westering  sun 
of  June  sent  down  a  flood  of  light  that  brightened  the  gleam 
of  the  gold  frames  of  hanging  pictures,  touched  up  rough 
sketches  and  preliminary  studies  standing  about,  and  lay  in  a 
splash  of  brilliancy  among  the  sheets  of  music  and  the  dainty 
volumes  of  poetry  and  belles  -  lettres  on  the  grand  piano. 
Suddenly,  as  his  gaze  rested  with  a  suspicion  of  wistfulness 


"SUCCESS"  327 

on  this  doubly  artistic  interior,  in  which  the  pictures  were  only 
pleasant  spots  of  color  in  a  larger  harmony,  a  harmony  of  rugs 
and  flowers  and  tapestry  and  picturesque  properties  and  bric- 
a-brac,  there  shot  up  in  his  mind  an  image  of  an  ancient  epi- 
sode. He  saw  himself,  a  shy,  homely  figure,  standing  in 
despairing  bitterness  on  the  threshold  of  an  elegant  studio — 
though  not  so  elegant  nor  so  commodious  as  this — the  studio 
of  the  brilliant  cousin  whose  life  had  intersected  his  own  so 
many  years  ago.  His  face  changed,  a  sad  smile  hovered  about 
the  corners  of  his  mouth.  Perhaps  some  unhappy  young  man 
was  now  outside  his  own  less  hospitable  door,  growing  hopeless 
as  the  echoes  alone  answered  him.  He  started  up  hastily,  and 
hurrying  into  the  passage  drew  back  the  handle  of  the  door. 
A  slim,  fashionably  attired  gentleman,  who  was  just  walking  off 
down  the  gravel  pathway,  turned,  hearing  the  sound  of  the  open 
door,  his  handsome,  clean-shaven,  bronzed  face  radiating  joyous 
amusement. 

"You  duffer  !"  he  exclaimed. 

The  famous  painter  turned  pale.  His  cigarette  fell  from  his 
mouth,  so  startled  was  he.  That  he  should  have  just  been 
thinking  of  Herbert  Strang  seemed  almost  supernatural.  But 
the  nervous  feeling  was  submerged  in  a  wave  of  happiness ;  to 
nave  Herbert  again  was  an  incredible  bliss.  How  lucky  he  had 
opened  the  door ! 

"  Herbert !"  he  cried,  seizing  his  cousin's  delicately  gloved 
hands  with  an  affectionate  impulsiveness  worthy  of  Herbert's 
mother. 

Herbert  surveyed  him  roguishly.  "  You're  a  nice  old  pal  to 
make  me  ring  three  times.  What's  going  on  inside  ?" 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  laughed  the  painter,  in  effusive  happiness. 
"  Only  tea,  and  that's  cold.  But  come  in." 

"You're  sure  I'm  not  disturbing  you,"  said  Herbert,  mis- 
chievously. 

"  No,  I'm  all  by  myself." 

"  It  must  be  awfully  convenient  to  have  a  back  door,"  mur- 
mured Herbert. 

The  painter  shook  his  head.  "  You  haven't  changed  one  bit," 
he  said,  in  laughing  reproach,  as  they  moved  within. 


328  THE    MASTER 

"  Oh,  but  you  have,"  said  Herbert,  pausing  in  the  doorway  to 
take  him  by  the  shoulders,  and  looking  affectionately  into  his 
face.  "  Why,  there's  quite  a  dash  of  gray  in  your  hair.  You 
must  have  been  killing  yourself  with  work." 

And,  indeed,  there  were  lines  of  premature  age  on  the  hand- 
some face,  too,  though  the  rather  tall,  sturdy  figure  was  still 
alert  and  unbent.  The  dark  eyes  had  lost  something  of  their 
old  softness,  the  light  of  dream  was  rarer  in  them,  but  the  little 
tangle  of  locks  on  his  forehead  still  co-operated  with  the  dark 
brown  mustache  and  the  smoothness  of  the  firm  chin  to  suggest 
the  artist  behind  the  practical  man  of  the  world. 

"  You  forget  I'm  getting  old,"  he  replied,  only  half  jocosely. 

"  What  nonsense  !     Why,  I'm  several  years  older  than  you." 

"  No,  are  you  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am.  Don't  you  remember  I  was  your  senior, 
instructing  you  in  the  ways  of  this  wicked  world  ?" 

"  Well,  you're  still  looking  a  boy,  anyhow,"  said  Mr.  Strang. 

"That's  what  I  want  to  look,"  said  Herbert,  laughing.  "It 
makes  pretty  women  pet  you  and  hold  your  hand.  Why,  in 
Italy  I  was  the  envy  of  all  the  cavaliers.  Per  Dio,  this  is  a 
change !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  entered  the  fashionable  studio. 
"Do  you  remember  the  time  you  came  to  me  and  wanted  to 
borrow  tenpence,  or  something  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Not  that  I'm 
surprised,  old  boy,  not  a  bit.  I've  heard  your  name  come  up 
quite  half  a  dozen  times  in  the  few  days  I've  been  back  in  stony 
old  London.  No,  thanks,  I'll  sit  on  the  couch.  It's  cooler  there. 
And  I  won't  have  any  cold  tea  in  this  frightfully  hot  weather. 
I'm  still  faithful  to  soda-and-whiskey,  if  you've  got  any." 

"  Lots,"  said  Mr.  Strang.     "  A  cigar  ?" 

"  Not  before  dinner,  thanks.  I  don't  mind  a  cigarette.  But 
I'm  not  interrupting  your  work  ?" 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous,  old  fellow.  The  idea  of  my  turning  you 
away !" 

"  Well,  considering  you  nearly  did  it !  But  you're  a  celebrity 
now.  Your  time's  valuable." 

"  Oh,  but  I've  struck  work  for  to-day." 

"What,  with  all  this  light  left?  This  is  indeed  a  change 
from  the  tenpenny  days." 


329 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  one  gets  tired,"  the  painter  sighed.  "  Do 
you  like  Turkish  or  Egyptians  ?" 

"  In  cigarettes  Turkish,  in  women  Egyptians,"  he  answered, 
laconically.  "  But  what  a  joke  to  find  you  tired  of  painting ! 
You're  beginning  to  feel  like  I  felt,  eh  ?  That  it's  one  demni- 
tion  grind.  And  I'm  tired  of  travelling,  and  wouldn't  mind  do- 
ing a  little  painting  now,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  How  funnily  things  do  turn 
out,  to  be  sure.  Why,  you've  changed  inside  almost  as  much  as 
outside,"  he  said,  looking  up  languidly  into  his  host's  face,  as  he 
selected  a  cigarette  from  the  box.  "  I  wonder  if  I  should  have 
recognized  you  if  I  had  met  you  in  the  streets  instead  of  track- 
ing the  lion  to  his  own  den.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  half  a 
dozen  years  would  have  made  such  a  difference." 

"  Half  a  dozen  years  !     It's  nearer  ten  since  we  met." 

"  Nearer  ten  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  Let  me  see.  It  must  be  quite 
seven  years  since  the  governor  died,  poor  old  chap.  We  haven't 
met  since  then,  have  we  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  painter. 

"  No,  of  course ;  I've  been  careering  about  the  world  ever 
since.  You  know  he  died  in  Egypt  ?" 

"  No,  I  didn't  know  that,"  said  Mr.  Strang.  "  I  only  heard 
of  his  death  from  the  dealer  who  took  over  the  connection." 

"  Yes,  he  had  to  go  there  pretty  sharp  for  his  lungs,  and  I  was 
compelled  to  leave  Paris  in  my  second  year  to  go  with  him  and 
the  mater.  But  he  died  happy.  That  blessed  gold  medal  of 
mine  made  him  sure  the  name  of  Strang  would  be  immortal  in 
the  history  of  Art.  I  always  said  there  was  a  certain  pathos 
about  the  poor  old  gentleman.  But  perhaps  his  assurance  wasn't 
so  wrong  after  all,  because  you  are  going  to  make  the  name 
glorious,  aren't  you,  you  lucky  beggar !  And  his  own  name, 
too  ;  which  ought  to  make  him  happy,  even  in  heaven." 

The  great  man  smiled  sadly,  but  he  only  said,  "And  your 
mother — how  is  she  ?  I've  often  wished  to  see  her  again." 

"  Oh,  she's  living  now  at  Lyons  with  some  distant  reJatives  of 
hers.  Of  course,  she  soon  tired  of  gadding  about  with  me.  She 
sent  me  a  cutting  about  you  once  from  a  French  paper.  So  you 
see  how  your  fame  has  spread  !  I've  often  been  meaning  to 
write  to  you,  but  you  know  how  it  is,  always  moving  about,  and 


330  THE    MASTER 

I  always  intended  to  look  you  up  when  I  came  to  London.  I 
was  here  two  years  ago  on  a  flying  visit,  but  some  paper  said 
you  were  in  Rome.  Yes,  and  I  saw  a  colored  reproduction  of  a 
picture  of  yours,  *  Motherhood,'  decorating  a  miner's  cabin  in 
the  Rockies — the  Christmas  supplement  of  the  Illustrated  Lon- 
don News,  if  I  remember  aright.  It  was  a  mother  nursing  a 
little  girl,  while  the  kid  herself  nursed  a  doll." 

The  painter  turned  away  and  struck  a  match. 

"  And  then  there  were  a  couple  of  years  before  your  father 
died,"  he  said.  "  The  last  time  we  met  was  at  the  Students' 
Club  in  Seven  Dials  on  Gold  Medal  Night." 

"  Yes,  by  Jove,  you're  right,"  said  Herbert,  thoughtfully.  "  If 
I  didn't  wish  to  avoid  a  platitude  I  should  say  that  time  flies. 
It's  been  a  jolly  good  time,  though,  for  me,  with  nothing  to  do 
except  spend  the  poor  old  governor's  savings,  and  a  jolly  big 
hole  I've  knocked  in  them,  too.  And  you  haven't  come  out  of 
it  so  badly,  eh?  That's  a  stunning  thing  of  yours  in  the 
Academy.  Aren't  you  glad  I  made  you  promise  to  send  a 
picture  to  it  in  those  tenpenny  times  ?  I've  just  come  from 
there.  Got  your  address  from  the  catalogue.  I  congratulate 
you  heartily.  It's  not  the  sort  of  thing  I  expected  from  you  ; 
but  it's  well  put  in,  and  I  suppose  it  pays.  It  is  astonishing," 
he  went  on,  after  pausing  to  sip  from  his  glass,  "  how  paltry 
English  art  looks  to  me  after  all  these  years  and  seeing  every- 
thing everywhere.  The  picture  of  the  year  is  exactly  like  the 
lid  of  a  bon-bon  box.  There  aren't  half  a  dozen  things  in  to- 
day's show  that  I'd  care  to  look  at  again.  You're  in  the  run- 
ning, don't  look  s.o  glum,  ha,  ha,  ha !  Frankly,  old  man,  your 
'Triumph  of  Bacchus'  is  jolly  good  work.  You  know  I  never 
cared  much  for  subject,  but  the  modelling  is  A  1,  and  that 
sunlight  effect  is  ripping !  And  what  a  crowd  there  was  before 
it !  Phew  !  I  nearly  got  suffocated  trying  to  see  it,  and  I  had 
to  retire  to  the  Architectural  Room  to  cool.  I  don't  like  Corn- 
pepper's  picture  one  bit,  though  he  is  an  A.R.A." 

"  You  mean  because  he  is,"  said  Matthew  Strang,  with  melan- 
choly facetiousness. 

"  No,  nothing  of  the  kind ;  that  rather  prejudices  me  in  his 
favor.  You  mustn't  forget  I  prophesied  it.  You  don't  mean 


"SUCCESS"  331 

to  say  you  admire  his  'Ariadne  in  Naxos'?  'Poached  lady  on 
greens,'  I  marked  it  in  my  catalogue.  Do  laugh !  You  look  as 
dull  and  faded  as  an  Old  Master.  I  think  I  shall  have  to  re- 
store you.  Here,  have  some  whiskey  yourself.  You're  damned 
unsociable." 

"  I  rarely  drink,"  the  host  said,  feebly. 

"  You  used  to  drink  my  whiskey,"  Herbert  reminded  him,  and 
as  he  poured  himself  out  a  little  in  deference  to  his  brilliant 
cousin,  he  thought  how  queerly  things  had  inverted  themselves. 

"  The  Triumph  of  Bacchus,"  said  Herbert,  laughing.  "  Now 
I've  put  in  the  good  spirit,  I'll  exorcise  the  bad,  as  David  did  to 
Saul."  And  crossing  over  to  the  piano  he  played  a  lively  air. 

"  I  picked  up  that  from  a  Spanish  gypsy,"  he  said.  "  Not 
George  Eliot's.  But  I'm  sinking  to  puns.  It's  the  English 
climate.  You've  got  no  wit  here,  and  there  isn't  even  a  word  for 
esprit.  Let's  examine  your  pictures.  Ha !  Hum  !  I  see  you've 
got  quite  a  number  on  your  hands.  I  suppose  they  must  be  the 
good  ones.  Ah !  What  do  you  call  that  thing — the  lady  in 
blue  and  the  harp  ?" 

"  '  Ideal  Womanhood,' "  answered  the  painter,  adding,  hastily : 
"  It's  just  been  returned  from  Australia.  I  lent  it  to  an  inter- 
national exhibition.  They  beguiled  me  with  the  prospect  it 
would  be  bought  by  the  Government." 

"  Ideal  moonshine,  I  should  call  it,"  laughed  Herbert.  "  There 
never  was  such  moonlight  on  sea  or  land.  And  does  the  ideal 
woman  play  the  harp  on  snowy  mountain-tops  at  midnight  with- 
out a  chaperon  ?" 

"  It's  supposed  to  be  symbolic,  you  know,  of  her  inspiring 
man  to  nobler  heights,"  explained  the  artist,  with  an  embarrassed 
air. 

He  wondered  vaguely  what  had  become  of  that  beautiful 
woman — what  was  her  name  ? — whose  casual  words  at  a  garden- 
party  had  driven  him  back  for  a  time  into  what  he  thought  was 
the  true  path  of  his  Art. 

"  Dear  me.  There's  quite  a  mystic  feeling  about  it.  Isn't 
that  the  right  phrase  ?  Do  you  know,  I'm  seriously  thinking  of 
becoming  an  art  critic.  Yes,  really  !  As  I  told  you,  Pve  had 
my  fill  of  travelling,  and  now  I'm  going  to  try  and  settle  down 


332  THE    MASTER 

here,  and  I  rather  like  getting  a  reputation  for  something  or 
other.  It  makes  real  woman  more  interested  in  one.  The 
only  thing  I'm  afraid  of  is,  I  know  too  much  about  the  subject, 
and  have  actually  handled  the  brush.  I'm  going  to  paint,  too, 
but  I've  neglected  to  keep  my  hand  in,  so  I've  not  much  hopes 
of  that.  Unless  I  came  out  as  a  stylist,  who  sees  the  world  as 
he  fails  to  paint  it.  You've  got  several  new  men  like  that,  I 
hear.  There's  money  in  myopia  and  diseases  of  the  eye  gener- 
ally. And  per  Dio !  how  photography  has  come  along  since  I 
was  one  of  the  pioneers  of  its  use  in  art !" 

Matthew  Strang  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What  does  it  matter?"  he  said,  wearily.  "The  whole 
thing's  a  farce." 

"  Here,  I  say,  must  I  play  another  gypsy  dance  ?  I  came  here 
expecting  to  find  you  a  harmony  in  gold,  and  lo !  you're  a  dis- 
cord in  the  blues.  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  You're  jeal- 
ous of  Cornpepper.  How  is  it  they  haven't  made  you  an  A.R.A. 
yet  ?  Don't  you  go  out  enough  ?" 

The  painter's  lips  essayed  a  melancholy  smile. 

"  I  go  out  all  I  want  to." 

"  There  are  enough  cards  stuck  over  your  mantel." 

"  Yes,  I  have  to  go  out  a  good  deal  in  the  season.  It  doesn't 
pay  to  offend  patrons." 

"  Or  Ideal  Womanhood.  I  reckon  you'll  be  making  a  fine 
marriage  one  of  these  days  when  you're  an  A.R.A. ,  as  you  must 
be.  Lady  Bettina  Modish,  or  something  of  that  sort,  eh  V1 

"  Won't  you  have  another  cigarette  ?"  said  the  painter, 
jerkily. 

"  Thanks.  Oh,  by-the-way,  ha,  ha,  ha !  What's  become  of 
that  woman,  you  rogue  ?" 

"  What  woman  ?" 

"  Real  womanhood.  The  woman  you  were  living  with  in 
Paris.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  You  didn't  think  I  knew  that.  But  I 
met  Cornpepper  there  on  my  return  from  Egypt,  and  he  told 
me  he'd  seen  you  going  about  with  her.  How  we  laughed  over 
our  Methodist  parson,  who  wanted  art  to  be  moral !  What's 
the  matter  ?" 

The  painter's  face  had  grown  white  and  agitated, 


"  SUCCESS "  333 

"  I'm  sorry  if  I've  said  anything  to  annoy  you,"  Herbert  pro- 
tested. "Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  given  Cornpepper  away. 
But  the  affair  is  so  ancient.  I  didn't  know  you'd  mind  a  refer- 
ence to  it  now." 

"  The  woman  I  was  living  with  in  Paris,"  said  Matthew  Strang, 
hoarsely,  "  was  my  wife." 

"  Non — sense,"  said  Herbert,  in  low,  long-drawn  incredulity. 
But  his  cousin's  face  was  only  too  convincing. 

"She's  not  alive  now  ?"  he  asked. 

The  painter  nodded  his  head  hopelessly. 

Herbert  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Good  God !"  he  said.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  were 
such  an  ass  as  to  marry  !  No  wonder  you're  in  the  blues." 

Matthew  Strang  was  silent.     There  was  a  painful  pause. 

"  But  you've  kept  it  pretty  dark,"  Herbert  said,  at  last. 
"  Everybody  seems  to  look  upon  you  as  a  bachelor." 

"  I  know,"  replied  the  painter.  "  I've  always  lived  a  lonely 
life,  and  I  don't  speak  about  my  affairs." 

"  I'm  sorry  I  touched  upon  them,  then." 

"  No.     I  can  talk  with  yow." 

"  Thanks,  old  man."  And  Herbert  took  his  friend's  hand  and 
pressed  it  sympathetically.  "  You're  not  living  with  her,  any- 
how, and  that's  something." 

"Oh,  but  I  am  living  with  her — at  least,  I  go  home  sometimes. 
It's  not  quite  my  fault — it's  grown  up  gradually.  She  lives  in 
Camden  Town." 

"  Alone  ?" 

"  Oh  no  !  There's  Billy — that's  my  young  brother — to  keep 
her  company.  And  then  there's  the  children." 

"What!  kids  as  well?" 

"  Only  two." 

Herbert  looked  glum.  "  I  suppose  she's  an  impossible  person," 
he  said. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  live  with  ?" 

"  No,  to  be  seen  with." 

"  We've  never  been  out  together  in  London,"  replied  the 
painter,  simply.  "  We  drifted  apart  before  I  was  asked  out. 
Oh,  but  it's  no  use  going  into  it — it's  all  too  sordid." 


334  THE    MASTER 

"Poor  chap!"  said  Herbert.  "  Well,  you  may  rely  on  my 
respecting  your  confidence.  I  suppose  it  is  a  secret  ?" 

"  It  seems  to  be.  I  make  none  of  it,  except  negatively.  You 
will  find  Mrs.  Strang  in  the  directory  as  a  householder  in  Cam- 
den  Town  ;  she  took  the  house,  as  it  happened.  She  has  a  little 
money  of  her  own." 

Herbert  smiled  sadly.  "  That's  what  I  always  say.  The  safest 
secret  in  the  world  is  the  open  secret.  If  you  had  hidden  her 
away  in  Patagonia,  or  tried  to  put  her  into  a  lunatic  asylum,  it 
would  have  been  the  talk  of  the  town.  As  you  simply  let  her 
live  quietly  in  the  heart  of  London,  nobody's  provoked  into 
inquisitiveness,  and  if  anybody  knows — as  no  doubt  an  odd  per- 
son does  here  and  there — he  doesn't  tell  anybody  else  because 
he  doesn't  know  it's  a  secret.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  hear 
the  marriage  was  duly  advertised  in  the  first  column  of  the 
Times.11 

Mr.  Matthew  Strang's  smile  faintly  reflected  his  cousin's. 
"  No,  we  were  married  in  Nova  Scotia,"  he  replied.  "  But  what 
are  you  doing  to-night  ?" 

"  How  improbable  life  is,"  mused  Herbert.  "  Only  yesterday 
I  heard  that  Jackson,  the  Cabinet  Minister,  has  been  secretly 
married  these  last  twenty  years.  What  am  I  doing  to-night? 
Oh,  nothing  particular.  I  thought  of  dropping  into  a  music- 
hall.  I  can't  stand  the  English  theatre.  It's  so  unintellectual." 

"  Well,  why  not  dine  with  me  at  the  Limners'  ?" 

"Sure  you  haven't  got  any  other  engagement?"  And  Her- 
bert peered  curiously  at  the  large  chalked-over  engagement  slate 
hung  on  the  wall. 

"  Oh,  I  said  I  would  dine  en  famille  at  Lady  Conisbrooke's, 
but  I  can  easily  send  a  wire.  As  it  isn't  a  formal  dinner-party, 
and  as  I'm  rather  a  privileged  person  with  her,  I  dare  say  she'll 
forgive  me." 

"It's  awfully  naughty  of  you,"  said  Herbert.  "But  then, 
there,  you're  a  genius !  And  it  would  be  jolly  to  dine  together 
as  in  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne.  I've  got  an  awful  lot  to  yarn 
about,  and  so  have  you.  I'll  rush  to  my  rooms  and  dress." 

"  Oh,  why  bother  to  dress  ?  Though  /  must,  if  you  don't 
mind.  I've  got  to  go  on  to  one  or  two  places.  If  you  don't 


"  SUCCESS "  335 

mind  waiting  a  few  minutes  while  I  wash  my  brushes  and  put 
on  my  war-paint,  we  can  go  at  once.  Unless  you're  too  fashion- 
able to  dine  prematurely." 

"  No,  but  I  think  I'd  rather  dress.  It's  cooler  in  this  fright- 
ful weather.  Shall  I  come  back  or  meet  you  at  the  club  ?" 

"As  you  like." 

"  Well,  you  go  on  to  the  club,  and  I'll  be  there  just  as  quiet- 
as  I  can.  Oh,  by-the-way,  write  out  that  wire,  and  I'll  send  if 
for  you." 

"  Thanks  ;  perhaps  you  had  better,  though  I  expect  my  man 
back  in  a  few  minutes.  He's  seeing  about  the  delivery  of  a 
picture  to  the  London  agents  of  the  Liverpool  Autumn  Exhibi- 
tion." 

When  Herbert  was  gone  Matthew  Strang  did  not  at  once 
mount  to  his  dressing-room.  The  advent  of  this  visitor  from 
the  past  had  stirred  up  all  its  muddy  depths,  and  the  knowledge 
that  he  had  a  little  time  to  spare  kept  him  brooding  over  it  all, 
recalling  the  episodes  of  their  camaraderie;  and  blended  with 
them,  as  faded  scents  with  old  letters,  he  caught  faint,  elusive 
whiffs  of  that  freshness  of  feeling  and  aspiration  which  had  im- 
pregnated them  in  those  dear,  divine  days  of  youth,  when  even 
his  darkest  hours  were  tinged  with  a  rose-light  of  dawn.  Never 
again  would  he  feel  that  glow,  that  fervor,  those  strange  stir- 
rings of  romance,  that  delicious  sadness  sweeter  than  all  mirth, 
when  a  perfect  blue  day  could  bring  tears  to  the  eyes,  and  the 
melancholy  patter  of  rain  at  twilight  was  like  a  dying  fall  of 
music,  and  something  strange  and  far  away  subtly  interfused 
itself  with  the  loveliness  of  nature,  with  flowers  and  sunsets  and 
summer  nights,  a  haunting  grace,  intangible,  inexpressible,  hint- 
ing somehow  of  divine  archetypes  of  beauty  in  some  celestial 
universe. 

No ;  even  his  spasmodic  strivings  to  escape  from  the  rut  of 
false  Art  were  becoming  fewer  and  farther  between.  Perhaps 
he  was  not  a  genius,  after  all,  he  had  begun  to  think.  Why 
should  he  vex  himself?  That  sentiment  of  Constable  at  which 
he  had  winced  when  he  first  came  across  it,  "  People  may  say 
what  they  like  of  my  art,  what  I  know  is  that  it  is  my  art,"  was 
losing  its  power  to  sting.  The  stirrings  of  his  astral  self  were 


336  THE    MASTER 

subsiding.  He  felt  himself  hardening  steadily  into  a  mere  unit 
of  the  Club  world  of  tired  and  successful  men,  who,  having 
blunted  their  emotions  by  heavy  feeding  of  all  their  appetites, 
could  no  longer  feel  the  primal  things,  taking  even  their  vices 
with  the  joyless  sobriety  of  virtue.  And  though  he  himself 
was  temperate  enough  and  had  not  been  unfaithful  to  Rosina, 
but  only  to  the  spirit  of  the  marriage  contract,  yet  this  same 
drought  of  feeling,  this  furred  tongue  of  the  emotional  being, 
was  becoming  unpleasantly  familiar. 

As  he  sat  now  moodily  reviewing  the  situation  he  burst  into 
a  spasmodic,  bitter  laugh.  It  had  struck  him  for  the  first  time 
that  his  life  had  come  to  be  not  unlike  his  father's — a  life  apart 
from  his  wife's,  with  a  rare  stay  under  the  domestic  roof,  the 
wife  the  more  amiable  for  his  absences.  A  sudden  intuition 
seemed  a  flash-light  on  his  father's  past.  He  felt  drawn  to  the 
dead  sailor  with  a  new  sympathy.  He  rose  in  agitation,  extend- 
ing his  arms  towards  a  visionary  form. 

"  Father,  father  !"  he  cried  aloud.    "Did  you  suffer  like  me?" 

"  Did  you  call,  sir?"  And  Claydon,  his  man-servant,  who  had 
come  in  quietly  through  the  back  door,  descended  from  the  bed- 
room, where  he  had  been  laying  out  his  master's  things. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  master.  "  Is  my  shaving-water  ready  ?  I'm 
going  out  a  little  earlier  than  usual." 

"  Yes,  sir."  And  the  painter,  recalled  to  reality,  hastened  to 
perform  his  toilet.  But  his  mind  still  ran  in  the  grooves  of  the 
past,  remote  from  all  the  new  interests  and  distractions  of  a 
brilliant  career. 

When  he  sprang  from  the  hansom  and  walked  through  the 
door  of  the  Limners'  Club,  he  remembered  that  this  was  the 
very  club  he  had  come  to  on  his  first  day  in  London — nay, 
that  the  gray-headed,  deferential  door-keeper  was  the  very  man 
whose  majesty  had  chilled  him.  He  wondered  now  whether  the 
old  fellow  ever  connected  the  popular  painter  with  the  homely, 
diffident  youth  who  had  inquired  for  Mr.  Matthew  Strang. 

"  Gentleman  waiting  for  you,  sir." 

Curious !  Now  it  was  Herbert  that  was  waiting  for  Mr.  Mat- 
thew Strang. 

But  the  thought  of  the  whirligig  of  time  gave  him  no  pleas- 


"SUCCESS"  337 

are.  In  his  early  struggles  in  London,  when  no  one  would  buy 
his  work,  he  had  gloated  in  anticipation  over  the  humility  of 
the  dealers  when  he  should  have  made  his  position  ;  now  he 
had  long  since  forgotten  and  forgiven  their  contempt;  how 
could  they  know  he  was  worth  taking  up  ?  There  was  nothing 
but  the  palest  shadow  of  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  they 
would  scour  London  in  search  of  those  despised  pictures  if  they 
only  knew.  He  wondered  sometimes  if  those  early  things  of 
his  would  ever  come  up  into  the  light,  whether  the  daughter  of 
his  ancient  landlady  still  treasured  her  mother's  wedding-pres- 
ent, and  what  had  become  of  "  The  Paradise  of  the  Birds." 

A  bluff  graybeard  in  the  hall  shook  his  hand  heartily.  It  was 
Erie-Smith.  Matthew  Strang  knew  now  that  Erie-Smith,  whom 
he  had  imagined  to  pass  his  days  encamped  before  the  beatific 
vision,  was  a  jolly  good  fellow  with  sheaves  of  amusing  anec- 
dotes. But  he  remembered  the  first  time  Erie-Smith  had  spoken 
to  him — at  a  City  banquet  in  the  beginnings  of  his  fame. 

"  We  oldsters  will  have  to  be  looking  to  our  laurels,"  he  had 
said,  placing  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder.  After  the 
banquet  Erie-Smith  had  given  him  a  lift  in  his  open  carriage, 
and  as  they  rolled  through  the  busy,  flashing  London  night  a 
voice  in  Matt's  breast  kept  crying  out,  "  This  is  Erie-Smith ! 
Look !  This  is  the  great  Erie-Smith  I  am  driving  with.  Why 
don't  you  look,  you  stupid  multitudes  ?  Do  you  not  know  this 
is  Erie-Smith — Erie-Smith  himself  ?"  Oh,  why  did  not  some  of 
the  people  who  knew  Matthew  Strang  come  along  and  see  him 
driving  with  Erie-Smith  ?  Perhaps  they  did — there  must  surely 
be  one  acquaintance,  at  least,  among  all  those  crowds,  and  he 
would  tell  the  others.  He  had  scarcely  been  able  to  reply  ra- 
tionally to  Erie-Smith's  conversation,  so  intoxicated  was  he  by 
the  great  man's  proximity.  And  now  he  himself  was  a  popular 
celebrity  —  shown  with  the  finger  —  on  the  eve  of  Academic 
honors ;  had  he  not,  of  all  the  younger  men  among  the  guests, 
been  called  upon  (with  disconcerting  unexpectedness)  to  respond 
to  a  toast  at  the  Academy  Greenwich  Dinner  only  last  month  ? 
Was  he  not  already  on  the  Council  of  minor  artistic  societies  ? 
Yes ;  doubtless  he  himself  was  already  the  cause  of  like  foolish 
flutterings  in  the  breasts  of  youthful  hero -worshippers  —  he 


338  THE    MASTER 

whose  heart  could  no  longer  flutter,  not  even  when  the  youthful 
hero-worshipper  was  a  woman  and  beautiful. 

.He  dined  with  Herbert  at  a  little  table.  His  burst  of  com- 
municativeness had  exhausted  itself,  and  he  was  glad  to  let  the 
returned  traveller  do  the  bulk  of  the  talking  as  well  as  of  the 
dining.  He  himself  ate  little,  though  the  cuisine  was  excellent, 
and  the  cellar  took  high  rank.  Over  dinner  Herbert  bubbled 
over  in  endless  reminiscences  of  the  rare  dishes  and  vintages  he 
had  consumed,  the  operas  and  symphonies  he  had  heard,  the 
women  who  had  loved  him — a  veritable  rhapsody  of  wine, 
woman,  and  song.  In  an  access  of  unmalicious  bitterness,  like 
that  which  had  overcome  him  on  the  threshold  of  Herbert's 
studio,  Matthew  Strang  felt  that  Herbert  was  the  real  Master — 
the  Master  of  life. 

In  the  smoking-room  other  men  gathered  round.  There  was 
Grose,  whose  colossal  canvases  were  exhibited  at  a  shilling  a 
head  with  explanatory  pamphlets  by  high  ecclesiastical  authori- 
ties, and  there  was  Thornbury,  who  succeeded  him  in  the  same 
gallery  with  colossal  nudes  that  needed  no  explanation  from 
ecclesiastical  authorities. 

Matthew  introduced  Herbert  to  Trapp,  the  realistic  novelist, 
and  Herbert  introduced  Matthew  to  Sir  Frederick  Boyd,  the 
composer,  who  related  with  gusto  a  story  of  how  he  had  ex- 
posed a  cheat  at  Monte  Carlo.  A  Scotch  landscape-painter 
asked  Matthew  to  recommend  him  a  model.  Two  Associates 
joined  the  group.  One  was  a  vigorous  painter  who  , painted 
everything  a  premier  coup,  the  other  was  Cornpepper,  externally 
unchanged,  save  for  a  round  beard. 

He  had  long  since  cut  himself  adrift  from  the  Azure  Art 
Club,  though  he  still  counted  his  disciples,  whose  experimental 
fumblings  in  development  of  his  methods  he  boasted  of  observ- 
ing in  sapient  passivity.  "  Try  it  on  the  dog,"  he  used  to 
chuckle  to  his  familiars.  "  I've  done  searching— let  my  imita- 
tors search,  and  risk  the  bogs  and  the  blind-alleys.  If  they  do 
strike  a  path,  I'm  on  the  spot  instantly  to  lead  them  along  it. 
That's  the  only  way  one  can  learn  from  one's  followers."  He 
used  to  tell  with  glee  how  one  of  them  had  ruined  a  picture  by 
putting  it  out  in  the  rain  to  mellow  it.  "  Some  of  those  modern 


339 

stylists  who  are  trying  to  discount  Old  Mastership  will  survive 
their  pictures,"  was  Cornpepper's  commentary  on  a  phase  of  the 
newer  art.  "  They  will  leave  masterpieces  of  invisibility." 

A  good  many  changes  had  taken  place  in  the  Art  world  since 
Matthew  Strang  had  first  had  the  felicity  of  drinking  whiskey 
in  Cornpepper's  studio.  The  flowing  tide  was  now  with  the 
decorative  artists,  of  whom  the  "  Mack "  of  that  evening  had 
proved  a  pioneer ;  the  Fishtown  school  of  photographic  realism 
had  lived  long  enough  to  be  orthodox ;  the  Azure  Art  Club 
itself  was  half  absorbed  by  the  Academy,  and  a  new  formula  of 
revolt  was  momently  expected  on  the  horizon ;  some  said  it  was 
to  be  Primitive,  others  mysteriously  whispered  "  spots " ;  to- 
night Herbert,  with  mock  seriousness,  announced  that  he  him- 
self was  about  to  lead  a  movement,  the  originality  of  which 
consisted  in  seeing  Nature  through  stained  glass.  What  weird 
magic  a  landscape  gained  when  observed  through  a  green  or 
pink  window  !  But  he  found  the  men  not  so  willing  to  talk  of 
principles  as  in  the  days  of  Cornpepper's  Bohemian  parties, 
when  Carrie  with  the  whiskey  bottle  stood  for  the  sober  club 
attendant  with  his  tray  of  liqueur  brandies.  The  conversation 
was  rigidly  concrete,  except  for  a  moment  when  Cornpepper 
nearly  came  to  hot  words  with  the  photographic  painter  who  in- 
sisted that  Nature  was  always  beautiful.  The  little  man,  glaring 
through  his  monocle  and  rasping  the  plush  arm-chair  with  his 
nails,  insisted  that  this  was  sheer  cant,  one  had  only  to  look  in 
the  glass  to  see  how  ugly  Nature  could  sometimes  be  !  Selec- 
tion was  the  only  excuse  for  Art.  Random  transcripts  from 
Nature  were  as  foolish  as  the  excesses  of  the  Neo-Japanese 
school,  into  which  the  Azure  Art  Gallery  had  degenerated. 
But  this  lapse  of  Cornpepper's  into  his  early  manner  was  brief. 
Recovering  himself,  he  told  a  malicious  anecdote  about  an  artist 
who  was  taking  to  etching  because  his  eyesight  was  failing,  and 
he  explained  the  domesticity  of  British  Art  by  the  objection  of 
artists'  wives  to  all  models  except  babies.  Everybody  knew,  he 
said,  why  Carruthers  had  been  driven  to  landscape  and  Christmas 
supplements.  "  Depend  upon  it,"  dogmatized  the  little  man  with 
his  most  owlish  air  of  wisdom,  "  the  man  who  marries  his  model 
is  lost.  She  will  never  tolerate  a  model  on  the  premises  again." 


340  THE    MASTER 

His  fellow-Associate  told  a  story  of  a  stock-broker  who  had 
got  himself  invited  to  the  Greenwich  dinner  last  year,  and  had 
asked  Erie-Smith  to  give  him  the  sketch  of  passing  barges 
which  the  great  man  had  pencilled  on  his  sketch-book  after  din- 
ner. "  Erie-Smith  good-naturedly  gave  it  to  him.  This  year  he 
was  there  again,  and  said  with  proud  respect  to  Erie-Smith, « I've 
still  got  that  sketch.'  And  produced  it  crumpled  up  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket !" 

"  Yes,  but  did  you  hear  Vanbrugh's  mot  ?"  asked  Trapp. 
"  He  said,  '  Naturally  ;  being  a  financier  he  doubled  it.'  " 

"  Why,  I  said  that !"  cried  Cornpepper,  angrily. 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Herbert.     "  It's  a  well-known  chestnut." 

"  Then  I  pulled  it  out  of  the  fire,"  screamed  Cornpepper. 

Somebody  exhibited  another  sketch,  grotesquely  indecorous, 
by  a  popular  painter  of  religious  masterpieces,  and  the  latest 
epigram  on  the  divorce  case  of  the  hour  was  repeated  and  en- 
joyed. But  Matthew  Strang's  laughter  held  no  merriment. 

"  Shall  you  be  at  the  Academy  soiree  ?"  he  asked  Trapp,  to 
turn  the  conversation. 

"  No,  I  don't  care  for  crowds,"  replied  the  realistic  novelist. 

The  conversation  rambled  on.  The  composer  drifted  away, 
and  a  full-fledged  Academician  took  his  place — an  elderly,  dan- 
dified figure  with  a  languid  drawl,  an  aristocratic  manner  caught 
from  his  sitters,  and  a  shoulder-shrugging  contempt  for  Conti- 
nental Art ;  in  despite  of  which  Matthew  Strang  protested 
mildly  against  the  bad  hanging  at  Burlington  House  of  a  por- 
trait by  an  eminent  Frenchman.  Cornpepper  talked  of  a  sale 
at  Christie's  at  which  most  of  the  pictures  had  fetched  lower 
prices  than  was  given  for  them  by  their  last  owners. 

"  It's  all  a  spec',"  said  Herbert;  "there's  no  such  thing  as  a 
fixed  value  in  a  work  of  art.  Everything  depends  on  the  artist's 
pose.  The  more  the  buyer  gives  for  a  picture  the  more  he  likes 
it.  It's  a  game  of  brag.  Set  up  a  fine  establishment — the  deal- 
er will  pay.  My  old  governor  was  a  good  deal  taken  in  by  pre- 
tentious humbugs  with  pals  in  the  press."  As  the  Academician's 
own  establishment  was  notoriously  finer  than  his  pictures — a  fact 
of  which  the  wandering  Herbert  was  ignorant — Matthew  Strang 
hastened  to  speak  of  Tarmigan,  who  had  been  recalled  to  mem- 


"  SUCCESS  "  341 

ory  by  the  catalogue  of  the  aforesaid  sale.  "  I'm  afraid  he's 
gone  under,  poor  fellow,"  he  said.  "  I've  tried  to  come  across 
him,  but  he  was  always  a  mysterious  person." 

But  Cornpepper  continued  to  talk  of  the  sale,  of  the  fluctua- 
tions of  prices  ;  of  the  impoverished  condition  of  the  market,  so 
menacing  to  young  artists  who  had  set  up  fashionable  establish- 
ments on  the  strength  of  their  first  sales ;  of  the  potentialities 
of  America,  that  yet  undiscovered  continent,  till  all  the  tide  of 
secret  bitterness  welled  up  in  a  flood  from  the  depths  of  Mat- 
thew Strang's  soul.  Money  !  Money  !  Money  !  He  had  never 
really  escaped  from  it.  What  a  mirage  Art  was  !  Even  success 
only  brought  the  same  preoccupations  with  prices,  it  was  all  the 
old  sordidness  over  again  on  a  higher  plane.  The  ring  of  the 
gold  was  the  eternal  undertone,  bringing  discord  into  every  har- 
mony. With  a  public  ignorant  of  what  Art  meant,  conceiving 
it  as  something  rigid  like  science,  not  as  the  expression  of  the 
temperament,  technique,  and  vision  of  individual  genius ;  with  a 
public  craving  for  pictorial  platitudes ;  Art  could  not  be,  and  was 
not,  produced,  save  by  a  martyr  here  and  there.  Everywhere 
the  counting  of  pieces  and  the  shuffling  of  bank-notes  !  The 
complacent  Academician  irritated  him  ;  he  was  tired  of  reading 
of  his  marble  halls,  the  vassals  and  serfs  at  his  side,  his  garden 
parties,  his  Belgravian  palace  erected  on  the  ruins  of  a  forgotten 
bankruptcy.  The  fumes  of  expensive  wines  and  cigars  gave  him 
a  momentary  vertigo. 

"  For  God's  sake,  stop  talking  shop  !"  he  burst  out  suddenly. 

The  astonished  Cornpepper  let  his  eye-glass  fall. 

"  Have  you  gone  crazy,  Strang  ?"  he  asked,  witheringly. 
"  What  do  you  join  an  artists'  club  for,  if  you  don't  want  to 
talk  shop  ?  Strikes  me  you'd  better  get  yourself  put  up  for  the 
Commercial  Travellers'  Union." 

"  That's  what  we  are,"  retorted  Matthew  Strang. 

The  Scotch  landscape-painter  pacified  them  by  proposing  a 
game  of  "  shell-out,"  and  Herbert  eagerly  seconding  the  pro- 
posal it  was  carried  nem.  con.,  and  the  group  mounted  to  the 
billiard-room,  where  Matthew  Strang  won  half  a  crown  before  he 
went  off  to  his  nocturnal  parties,  leaving  his  cousin  still  renewing 
with  zest  his  olden  experience  of  the  lighter  side  of  British  Art. 


CHAPTER   III 
"  VAIN -LONGING 


As  a  matter  of  habit  Mr.  Matthew  Strang  went,  some  weeks 
later,  to  the  Academy  Soiree  to  add  his  handshake  to  the  many 
suffered  by  the  presidential  image  of  patience  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  and  to  help  appease  the  insatiable  appetite  of  the  crowd 
of  Christians  to  whom  lions  are  thrown.  It  was  part  of  his 
success  to  move  through  fluttering  drawing-rooms,  and  it  im- 
bittered  him  to  feel  that  the  average  admirer  conceives  the 
artist  as  living  in  a  world  of  beautiful  dreams,  sweet  with  the 
incense  of  perpetually  swung  censers,  and  knows  nothing  of 
the  artist's  agonies,  or  the  craftsman's  sweatings,  that  go  to  the 
making  of  beautiful  things ;  sees  always  the  completed  design, 
and  never  the  workman  scraping  the  paint  or  wetting  the  back 
of  the  canvas  or  tossing  sleeplessly  under  the  weight  of  a  ruined 
picture. 

To-night,  in  the  restless  dissatisfaction  that  had  grown  upon 
him  since  the  reappearance  of  Herbert  had  undammed  a  flood 
of  ancient  memories,  this  feeling  possessed  him  more  strongly 
than  ever,  inspiring  a  morbid  resentment  of  the  chattering  crew 
divided  between  hero-worship  and  champagne-cup.  There  was 
almost  a  suspicion  of  a  leonine  snarl  in  the  stereotyped  answer, 
"  You  are  very  kind  to  say  so,"  which  he  gave  to  the  grimacing 
persons  who  buttonholed  him  to  bask  in  the  radiance  of  his 
success  or  to  effuse  honest  admiration.  Everybody  seemed  to 
him  ill-dressed,  ill-mannered,  and  in  ill-health.  He  thought  he 
had  never  seen  so  many  cadaverous  complexions,  snag  teeth, 
powder-tipped  noses,  scraggy  shoulders,  glazed  eyes  (with  pince- 
nez,  monocle,  or  spectacles),  ungainly  figures  (squat  or  slim), 
queer  costumes,  bald  heads,  or  top-heavy  hair-dressings  ;  how 


"VAIN-LONGING"  343 

horrible  gentlefolk  were,  more  uncouth  even  than  the  denizens 
of  the  slums  !  Those  one  could  imagine  to  be  a  very  different 
breed,  cleaned  and  properly  clothed,  but  these  had  had  every 
chance.  How  poorly  humanity  compared  with  cows  and  horses  ; 
what  a  price  man  had  paid  for  soul — and  without  always  get- 
ting it.  Surely,  none  but  custom-blinded  eyes  could  gaze  un- 
blinking, unsmiling,  at  the  grotesque  show  of  mankind,  the 
quaint  crania,  the  unsightly  bodies ;  the  crowd  struck  him  as 
the  inventions  of  a  comic  draughtsman  in  a  malicious  mood, 
the  men  in  black  and  white,  the  ladies  in  color.  And,  indeed, 
though  he  was  not  thinking  of  himself,  his  stalwart,  well-pro- 
portioned figure  and  his  handsome  head  stood  out  notably  from 
a  serried  batch  of  degenerate  physiques. 

"  So  you  are  determined  to  cut  me,  Mr.  Strang  ?" 

The  painter  started  violently  as  the  laughing  syllables,  sound- 
ing far  more  musical  than  the  faint  far-away  strains  of  the  band 
in  the  Sculpture  Room,  vibrated  above  the  endless  buzz  of  the 
crowd  that  hemmed  him  in. 

He  looked  up.  His  moody  fit  vanished  before  the  radiant 
apparition  of  a  beautiful  woman  in  a  shimmering  amber  gown 
from  which  her  shoulders  rose  dazzling.  A  jewelled  butterfly 
fluttered  at  her  breast.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye — and  that 
eye  hers — he  recanted  his  contempt  for  the  Creator's  draughts- 
manship. 

"  I  have  bowed  to  you  three  times,"  she  said,  and  the  twin- 
kling of  her  eye — large  and  gray  and  lambent — was  supple- 
mented by  the  smile  that  hovered  about  the  corners  of  her 
wide  sweet  mouth.  "  But  you  won't  take  any  notice  of  me." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  in  flushed  embarrassment,  "  I 
must  have  been  lost  in  thought." 

She  shook  her  head  bewitchingly. 

"  You  don't  remember  me.  Celebrities  never  do  remember 
people,  though  people  always  remember  celebrities." 

"  I  do  remember  you,"  he  protested,  chords  of  memory  vi- 
brating tremulously  and  melodiously.  "  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  at  a  garden-party  some  years  ago." 

"  But  you  don't  remember  my  name  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  caught  it  then,"  he  said,  simply.     "  But  I 


344  THE    MASTER 

remember  you  scolded  me  because  my  pictures  were  only  beau- 
tiful." 

She  laughed  gayly. 

"  Ah,  then  I  ought  to  apologize  to  you.  I  have  changed  my 
mind." 

"  Now  you  don't  think  they're  even  that !" 

"  Far  from  it !  What  I  mean  is  that  I  have  come  to  think 
less  of  useful  things.  You  know  I  was  a  Socialist  then.  But 
let  me  introduce  my  friend  to  you." 

"  You  have  to  introduce  yourself  first,  Nor,"  said  a  younger 
lady  whom  he  then  perceived  at  her  side. 

He  smiled. 

"  You  are  irrepressible,  Olive,"  said  her  friend.  "  Mr.  Strang, 
let  me  introduce  myself  then — Mrs.  Wyndwood." 

He  bowed,  still  smiling. 

"  Eleanor  Wyndwood,"  she  added,  "  to  explain  my  friend's 
abbreviation,  which  always  puzzles  strangers." 

"  Everybody  knows  Nor  stands  for  Eleanor,"  remonstrated 
her  friend.  "  Do  they  suppose  your  name  is  Norval  ?" 

Mrs.  Wynd wood's  smile  met  the  painter's. 

"  And  now,  if  my  punctilious  friend  is  satisfied,  let  me  intro- 
duce Miss  Regan." 

Miss  Regan  gave  him  her  hand  cordially. 

"Where  are  your  pictures  to  be  found,  Mr.  Strang?"  she 
asked.  "We  haven't  been  to  the  Academy  before,  and  we 
should  so  like  to  save  the  shilling." 

"  Oh,  they're  not  worth  looking  at,"  he  said,  uncomfortably. 
He  suddenly  felt  ashamed  of  them.  It  was  thus  that  he  had 
felt  more  than  two  years  ago,  when,  over  her  strawberries  and 
cream,  Mrs.  Wyndwood  had  lectured  him  for  artistic  aloofness 
from  the  travail  of  the  time,  insisting  that  it  was  the  mission  of 
all  forms  of  Art  to  express  the  aspiration  of  the  century  tow- 
ards a  higher  and  juster  social  life,  towards  the  coming  of  God's 
kingdom  on  earth,  and  that  it  would  be  honester  for  him  to 
plough  the  land  than  to  paint  decorative  pictures  for  the  dining- 
rooms  of  capitalists.  He  had  scarcely  taken  in  her  point  of 
view,  more  persuaded  by  her  presence  than  by  her  words,  by 
some  intangible  radiation  of  earnestness  and  goodness  from  the 


"VAIN-LONGING"  345 

lovely  face  and  the  soulful  gray  eyes,  and  less  ashamed  of  the 
sinfulness  of  his  own  artistic  standpoint  than  of  the  often 
meretricious  quality  of  his  performance.  She  had  been  the  first 
woman  to  speak  slightingly  of  his  role  in  the  world,  and  her 
dispraise,  co-operating,  as  it  did,  with  his  own  discontent,  had 
impressed  him  more  than  all  the  praise,  just  as  one  unfavorable 
newspaper  critique  rankled,  while  a  hundred  eulogies  passed 
across  consciousness,  scarcely  ruffling  its  waves. 

When  the  flux  of  the  garden-party  had  drifted  her  off  in  the 
wake  of  Gerard  Erode,  the  handsome  young  Socialist,  he  had  felt 
that  he,  too,  might  have  become  a  Socialist  or  a  ploughboy,  or 
even  an  honest  painter,  under  the  inspiration  of  her  enthusiastic 
eyes.  He  had  thought  of  her  for  several  months,  almost  as  a 
creature  of  dream,  so  swift  and  shadowy  had  been  her  flitting 
across  his  horizon,  and  she  had  easily  lent  herself  to  that  con- 
ception of  Ideal  Womanhood  which  the  world  had  not  yet  de- 
stroyed, because  the  world  had  not  created  it.  It  was  under 
the  impulsion  of  the  eloquent  play  of  light  across  her  face  that 
he  had  conceived  and  painted  that  allegory  of  woman's  inspira- 
tion which  Herbert,  unable  to  read  in  it  the  pathetic  expression 
of  the  painter's  dissatisfaction  at  once  with  real  womanhood 
and  his  own  work,  had  found  so  amusing,  and  he  was  startled 
now  to  see  how  nearly  he  had  reproduced  her  traits  in  his  con- 
ception of  the  figure  on  the  mountain-top ;  not  so  much,  per- 
haps, in  the  features,  in  which  the  slight  upward  tilt  of  the  nose 
was  omitted  and  the  size  of  the  ears  diminished,  as  in  the  clus- 
tering chestnut  hair,  with  gold  lights  in  it,  and  in  the  poise  of 
the  head,  the  long,  thin  Botticelli  hands,  the  small  feet,  and  the 
graceful  curves  of  the  rather  tall  form,  and,  above  all,  in  the  ex- 
pression that  seemed  to  suffuse  her  face  with  spiritual  effluence. 
The  first  impression  renewed  itself  in  all  its  depth ;  he  asked 
himself  with  amazement  how  he  could  have  let  the  waves  of 
life  wash  it  away  so  completely  that  even  Herbert's  inquiry 
about  the  picture  had  not  recalled  her  clearly  to  his  memory. 

"  Oh,  but  I  want  to  see  your  pictures,"  she  said.  "  There's  a 
*  Triumph  of  Bacchus,'  I  hear.  I  saw  the  fresco — by  Caracci, 
wasn't  it? — in  the  Farnese  Palace,  in  Rome,  on  our  homeward 
journey.  We've  been  in  Russia,  Miss  Regan  and  I,  with  Mon- 


346  THE    MASTER 

sieur  and  Madame  Dolkovitch,  to  see  Podnieff  in  his  dairy-farm. 
Oh  !  he's  so  charming — so  simple  and  saintly.  He  enables  one 
to  construct  St.  Francis  of  Assisi." 

"  He  makes  very  bad  butter,"  said  Miss  Regan. 

"  He  is  the  greatest  spiritual  force  in  Russia,"  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood  said,  sweetly.  "  And  Dolkovitch  is  doing  much  to  extend 
his  influence  in  England.  I  wish  you  knew  Dolkovitch,  Mr. 
Strang." 

"  Why,  would  he  make  me  do  better  pictures  ?"  he  asked, 
playfully,  struggling  a  little  against  the  obsession  of  her  sweet 
seriousness. 

"  I  will  reserve  my  opinion  till  I  have  seen  your  latest  man- 
ner. Though  I  confess  I  don't  find  the  title,  « The  Triumph  of 
Bacchus,'  a  hopeful  augury  of  noble  work.  But  do  tell  me 
where  it  is  —  or  must  I  consult  the  catalogue  ?  Miss  Regan 
made  me  bring  one." 

"  It  is  in  this  very  room." 

"  Really  ?" 

"  Yes,  it's  rather  a  compliment.  The  Academicians  generally 
reserve  the  big  room — or  at  least  the  line — for  their  own  works. 
But  it  is  cruel  of  you  to  leave  me  so  soon." 

"  How  subtle,  Nor,"  said  Miss  Regan.  "  Of  course  he  cannot 
be  seen  looking  at  his  own  picture." 

"Do  let  us  go  where  the  crowd  is  thinner,"  he  pleaded. 

"  Than  round  your  picture  ?"  queried  Miss  Regan,  naively. 

"For  shame,  Olive,"  laughed  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  "I  shall 
punish  you  by  not  letting  you  see  it.  We  are  at  your  service, 
Mr.  Strang.  Show  us  what  you  please." 

"May  I  not  get  you  any  refreshment?"  he  said,  as  they 
passed  into  the  smaller  room,  and  into  a  perceptibly  cooler  at- 
mosphere. 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  this  is  refreshing  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood, with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Mrs.  Wyndwood  means  that  she  lives  on  air,"  said  her  friend. 

"  Oh,  Olive,  I  eat  quite  as  much  as  you." 

"You  used  to  before  you  developed  this  Dolkovitch  phase, 
and  began  understudying  an  angel." 

Matthew  saw  the  opportunity  for  a  commonplace  compliment, 


347 

but  he  did  not  take  it.  The  plane  on  which  Mrs.  Wyndwood 
existed  demanded  reverential  originality.  Every  word  she  said 
sounded  magically  musical,  and  delightfully  wise  and  witty. 
Olive's  remarks  one  merely  smiled  at,  though  she,  too,  had  a  low 
voice, "  that  excellent  thing  in  woman,"  and  was  considered 
handsome  by  those  she  did  not  annoy.  She  reminded  the  paint- 
er of  a  Caryatid  as  she  stood  there,  rather  more  sturdy  than  her 
friend,  and  shorter,  with  stronger  features  and  a  firmer  chin,  but 
to  the  full  as  graciously  proportioned.  She  had  dark  hair  and 
eyes,  and  a  warm  coloring  that  reached  its  most  vivid  tint  in 
the  intense  red  of  the  lips.  Her  dress  was  of  a  soft  green-blue, 
cut  high,  with  yellow  roses  at  the  throat,  and  but  for  the  paint- 
er's preoccupation  with  her  friend,  would  have  challenged  his 
eye  by  subtle  harmonies. 

"  There  goes  William  Lodge,  the  poet,"  cried  Mrs.  Wyndwood, 
suddenly. 

"  Impossible  !"  said  Olive. 

**  But  it  is  the  poet,"  insisted  Mrs.  Wyndwood. 

"  Impossible,"  repeated  Olive.  "  No  man  can  be  a  poet  with 
mutton-chop  whiskers." 

"  What  has  the  man's  appearance  to  do  with  his  poetry  ?" 

"  Everything.  Mutton  chops  and  lyrics  don't  rhyme — they're 
like  that  woman's  emeralds  against  her  turquoise  bodice.  A 
poet's  publisher  should  keep  him  out  of  sight — he  damages 
sales.  Look  at  the  hook-nosed  creature  there  with  the  goggles 
and  the  green  gown — who  would  believe  that  is  Mrs.  Ashman 
Watford,  who  writes  those  dainty  essays,  and  who,  realizing  it, 
could  ever  help  reading  her  between  the  lines  ?" 

"  Or  who,"  retorted  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  "  reading  the  essays, 
could  help  seeing  the  beautiful  soul  behind  the  goggles  ?" 

A  tremor  of  sympathy  traversed  the  painter's  form. 

"  I  stand  unreproved,  Nor.  You  can  afford  to  be  magnani- 
mous. But  I  contend  that  beautiful  souls  have  no  right  to  get 
mixed  up  with  hooked  noses.  We  ought  to  judge  a  soul  by 
the  body  it  keeps.  If  this  country  ever  becomes  a  republic,  it 
will  be  due,  not  to  democracy,  but  to  photography.  You  will 
agree  with  me,  I  know,  Mr.  Strang." 

He  started,  wondering  what  he  was  called  upon  to  agree  with. 


348  THE    MASTER 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"  he  quoted,  vaguely. 

"But  you  never  put  truly  ugly  persons  into  pictures,"  Miss 
Regan  persisted. 

"  No,"  he  admitted,  "  unless  in  portraits." 

"  And  not  even  then,"  the  girl  retorted.  "  I'd  far  rather 
these  portraits  came  out  of  their  frames  and  walked  about,  than 
promenade  among  the  originals  as  we  are  doing  now." 

"  Why,  I  don't  suppose  there's  one  original  present,"  Mrs. 
Wyndwood  remonstrated. 

"  Isn't  there  ?"  queried  Olive,  in  innocent  accents.  "  I  thought 
there  were  a  lot,  judging  by  the  want  of  resemblance." 

"  You  are  not  up  to  date,"  said  Matthew  Strang,  smilingly. 
"  Likeness  is  the  last  thing  a  portrait-painter  goes  for.  Values, 
spots,  passages,  color  schemes,  all  sorts  of  things  take  precedence 
of  the  likeness  in  their  importance  for  art.  The  likeness  is 
irrelevant  to  art.  It  concerns  only  the  sitter — art  concerns  the 
world.  A  friend  of  mine,  who  edits  an  illustrated  paper,  which 
is  the  first  to  publish  portraits  of  everybody  who  becomes  any- 
body, contends  that  the  number  of  persons  who  know  any  one 
man's  features  is  a  negligible  quantity.  '  All  the  public  de- 
mands,' he  says,  '  is  portraits.'  So  you  see  your  criticism  leaves 
our  withers  unwrung." 

"  Oh,  do  produce  your  catalogue,  Nor,"  said  Miss  Regan,  fly- 
ing off  at  a  tangent  for  want  of  an  answer.  "  I  am  dying  to  see 
the  name  of  that  thing,  stuck  right  up  there  on  the  ceiling." 
Mrs.  Wyndwood,  after  protesting  that  nobody  else  was  consult- 
ing a  catalogue,  which  only  made  Olive  more  eager,  fished  out 
the  booklet  from  some  obscure  pocket,  and  Olive  turned  the 
pages  impatiently. 

"  It's  just  like  Miss  Regan  to  want  to  look  at  the  skied  pict- 
ures," her  friend  murmured  to  the  painter. 

"  Oh,  the  poor  man !"  cried  Miss  Regan.  "  Listen,  this  is 
what  the  picture  is  called  : 

" '  Sweet  Love — but  oh  !  most  dread  desire  of  Love, 
Life- thwarted.     Linked  in  gyves  I  saw  them  stand, 
Love  shackled  with  Vain-Longing,  hand  to  hand : 
And  one  was  eyed  as  the  blue  vault  above : 
But  hope  tempestuous  like  a  fire-cloud  hove 


349 

F  the  other's  gaze,  even  as  in  his  whose  wand 
Vainly  all  night  with  spell-wrought  power  has  spann'd 
The  unyielding  caves  of  some  deep  treasure-trove.' 

"  Oh,  the  poor  man  !  Fancy  the  indignity  of  having  a  long 
quotation  skied !" 

"  What  lovely  lines !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  ignoring 
the  humorous  aspect  which  appealed  to  her  companion.  "  Do 
they  not  express  the  idea  perfectly,  Mr.  Strang  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  quite  catch  their  significance,"  he  said, 
flushing.  The  confession  was  not  so  candid  as  it  sounded,  for 
he  had  been  less  intent  on  the  quotation  than  on  studying  the 
sweetness  of  her  face,  and  watching  the  emotional  heaving  of 
the  jewelled  butterfly  on  her  beautiful  bosom. 

Olive  Regan  politely  offered  him  the  catalogue,  and  his  flush 
grew  deeper  as  he  seemed  to  read  his  personal  tragedy  in  the 
poet's  images.  What  ironical  Providence  had  sent  him  the 
words  just  then  ? 

"  Oh !  most  dread  desire  of  Love, 
Life-thwarted." 

Perhaps  it  was  that  which  made  his  life  so  unreal  to  him, 
which  explained  its  hollowness.  He  had  never  loved. 

In  a  strange  flash  of  imaginative  insight,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  room  was  full  of  lovers.  Love  was  in  the  air ;  delicate 
rumors  and  whispers  of  divine  delight,  of  holy  pain,  fluttered 
tremulously.  On  all  sides  couples  moved,  heart-bound,  their 
beauty  spiritualized,  their  very  ugliness  transfigured.  Love  re- 
deemed the  creation. 

He  remembered  that  in  the  days  when  he  had  trodden  the 
lonely  London  pavements,  hungry  and  heart-sick,  jostled  by 
hurrying  crowds,  he  had  yet  seemed  to  himself  the  only  solid 
figure  amid  a  throng  of  shadows  flitting  to  death  and  oblivion. 
In  this  tense  instant  he  felt  it  was  he  that  had  always  been  the 
shadow ;  the  one  shadow  amid  a  world  of  substantialities  and 
solidities,  a  world  that  lived  while  he  was  recording  the  forms 
and  colors  of  life. 

And  even  if  he  should   ever  love — and  the  thought  set  his 


350  THE    MASTER 

heart  fluttering  as  he  had  imagined  it  could  never  flutter  again 
— even  if  Love  should  ever  make  existence  real  for  him,  was  he 
not  predestined  to  a  doom  more  terrible  even  than  the  apathy 
of  loveless  life  ? 

"Linked  in  gyves  I  saw  them  stand, 
Love  shackled  with  Vain-Longing,  hand  to  hand." 

Mrs.  Wyndwood !  She,  too,  was  married.  And  in  that 
thought  he  knew  that  Love  had  begun  for  him.  The  unrest  into 
which  the  first  vision  of  her  had  plunged  him,  and  which  time 
had  stilled,  had  at  last  come  to  understand  itself.  He  loved, 
and  his  love  was  vain.  They  had  come  to  him,  both  at  once — 

"  Love  shackled  with  Vain-Longing,  hand  to  hand." 

He  returned  the  catalogue  mechanically  to  Miss  Regan. 

"They're  Rossetti's — fine,  are  they  not?"  said  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood. 

The  question  dragged  him  up  from  abysses  of  dream.  But 
even  though  he  felt  he  must  be  answering  it,  he  lingered  in 
luxurious  agony  over  the  music  of  the  question,  its  vibrations 
prolonging  themselves  in  his  ear. 

"  They  are  indeed  exquisite,"  he  said,  slowly,  at  last.  "  But 
do  you  think  there  would  be  any  *  hope  tempestuous '  ?" 

"  There  is  always  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  gently. 

There  seemed  a  sweet  assurance  in  the  unconscious  words : 
he  heard  a  chime  of  golden  bells  floating  up  from  some  sea- 
buried  city.  Perhaps  it  was  only  from  the  band  in  the  Sculpt- 
ure Room.  But  he  felt  he  must  not  attach  himself  further  to 
the  fascinating  twain  ;  his  solicitude  would  be  too  marked,  and 
he  was  aware  of  many  eyes  drawn  by  their  beauty. 

But  before  he  could  speak,  Mrs.  Wyndwood  went  on,  mus- 
ingly : 

"  And  after  all,  hope  is  better  than  fulfilment.  There  are 
blue  hills  on  the  horizon  which  the  child  longs  to  go  beyond ; 
but  happiness  always  lies  on  the  hither  side,  with  the  blue  hills 
still  beckoning."  Her  eyes  filled  with  dreamy  light.  "  It  is  as 
George  Herbert  so  beautifully  says : 


"VAIN-LONGING"  351 

'l  i  False  glozing  pleasures,  casks  of  happiness, 

Foolish  night-fires,  women's  and  children's  wishes, 
Chases  in  arras,  gilded  emptiness, 
Shadows  well-mounted,  dreams  in  a  career, 
Embroider'd  lies,  nothing  between  two  dishes, 
These  are  the  pleasures  here.'" 

How  exquisitely  she  spoke  the  melancholy  lines  that  seemed 
fraught  with  all  the  pathos  of  the  human  destiny,  her  words 
rippling  through  the  buzz  of  platitudinarian  trivialities  he  heard 
vaguely  all  around  him,  like  a  silver  stream  through  an  unlovely 
country.  She  had  suffered  too.  She,  too,  had  found  life  and 
its  pleasures  hollow ;  he  saw  that  in  the  quiver  of  the  beautiful 
lip,  in  the  wistful  brightness  of  the  eye.  Straightway  his  heart 
was  full  of  tears  for  her.  He  longed  to  comfort  her,  to  sacrifice 
himself  for  her.  Why  could  she  not  be  happy  ? 

He  had  a  sense  of  jar  when  Miss  Regan  said : 

"  That's  rather  a  strange  quotation  for  you,  Nor." 

"  Indeed  ?" 

"  *  Foolish  night-fires,  women's  and  children's  wishes.'  He 
had  a  true  notion  of  our  futility,  that  gentle  old  poet." 

"  I  am  in  no  fighting  mood  to-night,  Olive,"  replied  Mrs. 
Wyndwood,  gently. 

"  You  don't  stand  up  for  your  sex  ?"  the  painter  asked  Miss 
Regan,  in  surprise.  She  had  that  resourceful,  self-sufficient  air 
which  he  associated  with  pioneers  of  female  movements. 

Olive  shrugged  her  shapely  shoulders.  "  Heaven  forbid  that 
I  should  be  the  advocatus  diaboli" 

The  tossing  of  the  crowd  threw  up  a  long-haired,  long- 
bearded  man  with  a  handsome  leonine  cast  of  features,  who 
greeted  the  two  ladies  with  an  air  of  camaraderie. 

"Ah,  nous  voila  encore"  he  cried,  joyously,  adding  in  good 
English,  though  with  a  Russian  accent,  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Wyndwood, 
you  must  see  the  little  picture  of  the  Christ-child  by  a  young 
follower  of  our  Nicolovitch.  He  is  exiled  three  years  already, 
and  has  established  himself  on  your  hospitable  shores.  Ah,  how 
it  makes  a  spiritual  ray  among  your  English  platitudes !  You 
will  come  too,  Miss  Regan  ?" 

Olive,  who  had  cast  a  droll  glance  towards  the  painter  at  the 


352  THE    MASTER 

Russian's  awkward  allusion  to  British  banality,  shook  her  head. 
"  No,  thank  you.  I  hate  children,  and  I  am  tired.  You  will 
find  me  here,  Nor,"  and  she  let  herself  sink  into  a  lounge. 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  hesitated,  as  if  about  to  introduce  the  two 
men,  but  the  leonine  Dolkovitch  swept  her  off,  and  she  had  only 
time  to  leave  a  bewitching  smile  behind  her. 

"  Won't  you  go  and  see  the  child,  Mr.  Strang  ?"  Olive  asked, 

He  hesitated  in  his  turn.  But  she  would  come  back  if  he 
waited. 

"  I  would  rather  stay  with  you  if  I  may,"  he  replied,  gallantly. 

Olive  looked  sideways  along  the  lounge. 

"  There  is  room,"  she  reported. 

"Thank  you."  He  seated  himself  at  her  side,  and  stolidly 
regarded  the  crowd  and  the  opposite  pictures. 

Olive  fanned  herself  silently  at  great  length.  The  painter, 
stealing  a  sudden  glance  at  her,  found  her  observing  the  human 
spectacle  with  an  air  of  infinite  sadness. 

"  Do  you  like  dogs  ?"  she  asked,  unexpectedly. 

u  Yes,"  he  replied,  startled,  and  with  a  vision  of  Sprat.  "  But 
I  haven't  kept  one  since  I  was  a  boy.  But  why  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  That  woman  there  made  me  think  of  them — 
that  creature  they're  crowding  round.  Don't  you  see  that 
pasty-faced  hag  with  the  false  hair  and  the  real  diamonds  ? 
That's  Miss  Craven  St.  Clair." 

"  Well,  what  has  she  to  do  with  dogs  ?" 

"  Oh,  she's  a  leading  lady.     Plays  those  erotic  parts." 

He  looked  at  her  a  little  surprised  by  the  adjective,  and  still 
unenlightened. 

"  And  what  then  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know  all  leading  ladies  keep  dogs — to  get  extra 
paragraphs?  I  hope  you  hate  leading  ladies.  I  do.  They're 
so  virtuous,  and  you  know  virtue  is  such  a  feeble  vice.  Nor 
has  a  dog,  though  she's  not  a  leading  lady.  But  rather  a  led 
lady.  L-—E — D,  you  know." 

"  Do  you  mean  led  by  the  dog  ?" 

"  Yes,  whenever  she's  blind  and  the  dog  is  sly,"  she  said, 
mysteriously,  adding  quickly,  "  Nor's  dog  isn't  all  hers — it's 
mine  on  alternate  days.  He's  such  a  snob,  is  Roy — he'll  never 


"  VAIN-LONGING  "  353 

go  out  with  her  if  she's  frumpy.  He  insists  on  swell  dresses, 
dear  old  Roy." 

"  Can  she  be  frumpy  ?"  he  asked. 

She  flashed  a  quick  look  at  him. 

"  No,  she  is  very  sweet  and  amusing,"  she  answered,  grave- 
ly. "  She  is  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  been  able  to  live 
with." 

"  Do  you  live  with  her  ?" 

"  Of  course — I  chaperon  her." 

Matthew  smiled. 

"  What,  don't  you  think  I'm  old  enough  to  chaperon  a  young 
widow  ?" 

His  heart  leaped. 

"  I  didn't  know  she  was  a  young  widow." 

"Yes,  she's  quite  an  old  widow." 

"Have  you  lived  together  long?" 

"  ^Eons ;  we  disagree  so  much." 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"  Our  complexions  go  well  with  each  other's." 

"  I  should  call  that  harmony,  not  disagreement." 

"  Perhaps — in  your  technical  nomenclature.  But  I  call  it 
disagreement.  Besides,  we  haven't  a  thought  in  common.  I 
am  a — well,  how  shall  I  define  myself?"  she  looked  up  quiz- 
zingly,  her  fan  to  her  lips.  "  I  belong  to  that  class  of  women 
whose  sex  is  a  misfit.  And  she  is — " 

"  And  she  is  " — he  repeated,  in  some  suspense. 

"  She  is  the  sort  of  woman  who  won't  renew  the  velvet  edging 
on  her  walking-dresses." 

"  Now  you  puzzle  me." 

"  It  is  evident  you  know  nothing  of  women,  or  have  only  ob- 
served Englishwomen  who  mostly  put  up  with  braid.  Velvet 
edging,  which  is  an  American  notion,  saves  frayed  skirts,  and 
wears  out  quicker  than  the  stuff.  Look  at  her  gown  to-night — 
it  trails ;  mine  fits.  She  retains  the  infantile  habit  of  long 
clothes ;  I  am  'growd  up'  and  in  short  frocks." 

"  I  didn't  notice  her  gown." 

"  Men  never  do.     That's  why  we  wear  so  little  of  them." 

He  was  puzzled  by  a  curious  bitterness  in  her  tone,  as  well  as 

23 


354  THE    MASTER 

by  a  perplexity  as  to  her  exact  meaning.  Her  own  frock  was 
certainly  prudishly  high. 

"  I  don't  quite  follow  your  definition,  anyhow,"  he  said. 

"  No  ?  I'll  try  another.  There  are  only  two  classes  of 
women — those  who  ought  to  have  been  born  men,  and  those 
who  ought  never  to  have  been  born  at  all.  I  am  of  the  first, 
Nor's  of  the  second." 

He  shook  his  head  laughingly. 

"  Oh  !  but  I  won't  believe  that  of  either." 

"  If  I  expected  to  be  believed  I  should  have  more  hesitation 
in  telling  the  truth,"  she  replied,  gravely.  "  We  are  both  mis- 
takes, but  Nor  is  an  incorrigible  one.  You  heard  her  say  she's 
dropped  Socialism.  She  didn't  tell  you  she's  dropped  a  power 
of  money,  too,  in  subscriptions  to  the  Cause.  She  probably 
thought  equality  would  come  about  in  three  months,  and  that 
she  was  merely  disgorging  in  advance." 

"  Is  that  why  she  looks  so  sad  ?" 

"  Dear  me,  no  ;  money  doesn't  trouble  her." 

"  What's  the  matter,  then  ?" 

"  She's  been  married." 

"  You  mean  she  grieves  ?" 

"  Quite  the  contrary.     But  marriage  brands." 

"  You  speak  bitterly — yet  you  have  no  personal  experience." 

"No,  I  was  never  tempted." 

Her  frank  brusquerie  made  him  feel  an  old  acquaintance. 

"  I  cannot  believe  it,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  if  you  call  a  proposal  a  temptation !  I  call  it  a  bare 
hook." 

"  You're  a  man-hater,  I  see." 

"  A  woman-hater,  if  you  will.     Man  I  adore." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  confessed  again. 

"  Really  ?  I  am  a  very  simple  person.  Omne  ignotum  pro 
magnifico.  Women  I  know  and  detest.  Men  I  don't  know  and 
admire.  If  I  married  one,  I  should  know  him." 

"  But  you  might  find  him  better  than  you  expected." 

"  If  I  didn't  expect  to  find  him  better  than  I  expected,  I 
shouldn't  marry  him  ;  so  I  should  still  be  disappointed.  You 
see  I  know  just  enough  about  men  to  know  that  they  are  better 


"VAIN-LONGING"  355 

left 'unknown.  I  quite  agree  with  Nor  about  the  blue  hills.  It 
is  better  to  keep  one's  illusions.  At  present  I  am  happy  in  the 
thought  that  somewhere  in  the  universe  there  exists  a  fine  man. 
Even  the  average  man  is  less  petty  than  the  average  woman,  so 
that  the  one  fine  man  must  be  a  Bayard  indeed." 

He  laughed. 

"  Then,  if  he  came  along  and  made  you  an  offer  of  mar- 
riage—" 

"  I  should  close  with  it  at  once." 

"  You  are  a  droll  girl,"  he  could  not  help  saying.  "  You  are 
the  first  of  your  sex  who  has  ever  admitted  to  me  that  men  are 
better  than  women." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  how  sly  we  were  ?  A  man  has  one  or  two 
big  sins,  a  woman  a  bundle  of  little  ones." 

"  Ah,  well,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  Two  of  a  trade,  as  a  friend 
of  mine  says." 

"  Now  I  don't  understand  you — or  rather,  your  friend,"  she 
said,  flushing  a  little. 

"Oh,  he's  rather  brutal.  He  takes  the  Darwinian  view  of 
things,  you  know.  He  says  all  women  are  in  the  same  trade — 
man-hunting — so  they  run  one  another  down." 

"  But  I'm  not  running  one  another  down.  I'm  running  us 
down  en  bloc.  And,  besides,  that  isn't  the  Darwinian  view  at 
all.  It's  the  males  who  always  seek  the  females  and  develop 
the  lively  colors  to  attract  them.  Don't  you  remember  Tenny- 
son?— 

" '  In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast.' " 

"Yes,  but  that's  only  in  the  lower  creation,"  argued  Mat- 
thew Strang. 

"  Do  you  make  a  distinction  ?  But  I  am  ready  to  agree  with 
your  friend — since  he  isn't  here.  We  are  man-hunters.  What 
a  pity,  though,  that  civilization  has  so  reversed  the  order  of 
natural  selection  that  the  human  female  has  to  be  picked  in- 
stead of  picking  the  male.  See  the  result !" 

"  I  see  what  you  mean.     Man  has  degenerated  physically." 

"  And  woman  morally.  We  adore  the  beauties  of  your  purse 
instead  of  your  person." 


356  THE     MASTER 

"  And  so  we  develop  brain  to  get  purses  with.  Really,  the 
effect  is  not  so  bad." 

"  Brains  are  cheap  to-day  ;  and  they  don't  improve  the  appear- 
ance, anyhow.  If  people  wore  their  brains  outside — but  who  is 
this  brutal  friend  of  yours  who  gauges  my  sex  so  well  ?  Do  I 
know  him?" 

"  I  shouldn't  think  so.     He's  just  back  from  strange  places." 

"  So  am  I.     What's  his  name  ?" 

"  Herbert — Herbert  Strang." 

"  A  brother  ?" 

"  A  cousin." 

"  He's  not  an  artist  ?" 

He  hesitated  :  "  Yes — and  no,"  he  said. 

"  Ah,  two  of  a  trade,"  she  said,  slyly. 

He  smiled.  "  Oh,  he's  gone  out  of  the  business.  He's  be- 
come a  critic." 

"  Wise  man !" 

He  glanced  furtively  every  now  and  then  to  see  if  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood  was  returning.  He  was  conducting  the  conversation  with 
only  the  untroubled  surface  of  his  mind,  interested  enough  in  his 
piquant  companion,  but  feeling  her  entirely  as  an  interlude. 
Miss  Regan  perceived  his  perturbation  at  last. 

"  Oh,  don't  let  me  monopolize  you,  Mr.  Strang.  I  am  quite 
safe  here  till  Nor  returns.  There  are  so  many  people  thirsting 
for  you." 

"  Oh,  I'd  rather  stay  with  you,"  he  averred,  disingenuously. 

"  Don't  be  a  mere  man,"  she  returned,  raising  her  dark  eye- 
brows. "  Even  your  admirers  think  you  more  than  that.  It's 
not  fair  for  me  to  keep  you  from  them." 

He  was  rather  in  a  quandary.  He  could  not  tell  her  he  was 
waiting  for  her  friend. 

To  his  relief,  "  Ah,  I  see  them  coming,"  she  said.  "  You'll  be 
off  duty  in  a  moment.  I  must  introduce  you  to  Dolkovitch. 
He's  great  fun.  He  will  invite  you  to  his  spiritual  Sunday 
afternoons.  Do  you  judge  people  by  their  hat-racks  ?" 

He  stared  at  her. 

"  I  mean  when  they've  got  company.  Dolk's  hat-rack  when 
he's  *  at  honae '  is  lovely  ;  I'd  go  miles  to  see  it.  Such  curious 


"VAIN-LONGING"  357 

curly,  dusty,  many  -  hued,  amorphous  things  on  the  pegs  —  a 
cosmopolitan  congress,  only  the  chimney  -  pot  unrepresented. 
Nor  goes  to  meet  the  earnest  people,  but  I  go  to  see  their  hats. 
Oh,  M.  Dolkovitch,  do  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Strang.  He  is 
dying  to  know  you." 

"  De-lighted,"  said  Dolkovitch.  "  But  I  do  not  like  this  word 
'  dying,'  Miss  Regan." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon — I  forgot,"  said  Olive.  "  Mr.  Strang 
is  living  to  know  you.  M.  Dolkovitch,  like  the  ancient  Greeks, 
Mr.  Strang,  doesn't  like  to  think  of  death." 

"  I  can't  let  you  misrepresent  him  to  a  stranger,  Olive,"  said 
Mrs.  Wyndwood.  "  M.  Dolkovitch  is  wide  as  the  poles  asunder 
from  Pagan  thought,  Mr.  Strang.  His  teaching  simply  is  that, 
as  there  is  no  death,  but  merely  upward  evolution,  the  sooner 
the  word  is  banished  from  our  vocabulary  the  better." 

Her  voice  raised  the  discussion  to  celestial  heights. 

"  Never  say  die  !"  cried  Miss  Regan,  enthusiastically.  "  Every 
dictionary  should  be  without  it." 

"  Just  so,"  said  M.  Dolkovitch,  gravely.  "Our  European  cus- 
toms, Mr.  Strang,  with  regard  to  death  are  all  in  direct  contra- 
diction to  our  creed.  The  spirit  rises  into  more  blessed  states, 
and  instead  of  rejoicing  in  festive  attire,  we  mourn  for  it,  we 
put  on  black,  and  our  looks  are  black,  and  our  hearses  are  black, 
and  the  horses  they  are  of  black  also." 

"  I  think  it's  very  proper,"  said  Miss  Regan,  decisively.  "  I 
love  black  funerals.  Colored  funerals  would  make  me  feel  sad." 
She  rose.  "  We  are  going  soon,  Nor,  aren't  we  ?  You  look 
tired." 

"  Yes,  we  are  going  at  once,"  Mrs.  Wyndwood  breathed. 

The  Russian  gave  the  painter  his  card,  and  hoped  he  would 
come  and  hear  more  of  the  new  gospel.  Next  Sunday  after- 
noon spiritual  people  came  from  four  to  seven. 

Mr.  Strang  made  a  movement  to  accompany  the  ladies,  but 
Mrs.  Wyndwood  begged  him  not  to  trouble  —  M.  Dolkovitch 
would  see  them  to  the  carriage. 

"  Good-bye,  then,"  she  said  with  an  enchanting  smile.  "  It 
was  so  good  of  you  to  talk  to  us." 

Words  failed  him  in  reply.     Fortunately,  a  little  white-haired 


358  THE    MASTER 

gentleman  bowed  to  her  at  that  moment  and  distracted  her  at- 
tention. 

"  That  was  General  Dale,  Olive,"  she  said.  "  What  a  fine, 
soldierly  walk !" 

"  Varied  by  ducking  for  bullets  every  moment,"  remarked 
Miss  Regan.  "  He  oughtn't  to  know  so  many  people.  Not 
that  I  admire  the  military  bearing.  It's  so  unnatural  and  stiff. 
One  sees  the  drill  behind.  Even  those  little  wooden  soldiers  I 
never  liked.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Strang." 

"  Au  revoir,  I  hope,"  he  said.     Her,  at  least,  he  could  answer. 

He  went  to  the  "  Sunday  afternoon  "  at  five  o'clock,  the  earliest 
hour  one  could  decently  go  to  a  reception  commencing  at  four. 
In  the  meantime  he  had  reread  a  great  deal  of  Shelley,  who 
seemed  to  have  written  a  great  deal  about  Eleanor,  as  she  be- 
came to  her  lover's  secret  thought,  though  her  full  name  he 
learned  was  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  and  she  was  the 
daughter-in-law  of  a  Viscount,  and  connected  by  blood  or  mar- 
riage with  several  pages  of  Debrett.  In  the  hopelessness  of 
his  love  these  ties  were  no  separation  ;  he  did  not  think  of 
anything  but  the  blissful  pain  of  seeing  her  again.  He  had 
ridden  every  morning  in  the  Row,  but  neither  of  the  friends 
had  shown  herself. 

The  reception  was  held  in  a  flat  half  way  up  a  bleak  stone 
staircase  in  the  West  Central  district.  He  was  so  agitated  that 
he  forgot  to  note  the  hat-rack,  and  his  first  glance  at  the  com- 
pany appalled  him  with  the  sense  of  a  cosmopolitan  chaos, 
without  form  and  void,  over  which  no  light  of  Mrs.  Wyndwood 
brooded.  There  were  mystic  oil-paintings  on  the  walls  of  the 
narrow  room,  and  on  the  gray  marble  mantel-piece  stood  a  glass 
of  water,  in  which  floated  vaguely  the  white  of  an  egg. 

The  host  introduced  him  to  his  wife — a  tall,  haggard,  giraffe- 
necked  woman — who  gave  him  a  cup  of  tea,  and  passed  him  on 
to  a  nervously  peering  Herr  Grundau,  who  spoke  to  him  of  the 
revival  of  religion  among  the  University  Hurschen,  and  passed 
him  on  to  Mademoiselle  Brinskai'a,  a  little  yellow  Polishwoman, 
with  eyes  like  live  coals,  who  had  been  speaking  every  European 
language  in  turn  with  equal  fluency,  as  she  knitted  colored  wools 
into  some  occult  pattern. 


"  VAIN-LONGING  359 

"  I  have  heard  your  name,"  she  told  him  in  English  that 
sounded  almost  native,  as  he  seated  himself  next  to  her  in  the 
cushioned  window-seat. 

"  It  is  so  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  he  murmured,  automatically, 
not  without  the  astonishment  which  from  the  first  had  pervaded- 
him  when  strangers  professed  knowledge  of  him,  and  which  had 
never  quite  worn  off.  He  thought  his  peculiar  name  accounted 
for  his  notoriety. 

"  You're  not  a  spiritual  artist,"  she  said,  half  interrogatively. 

"  An  artist  can  only  be  artistic,"  he  replied,  in  vague  self- 
defence. 

"  That's  all  my  eye  and  Betty  Martin,"  said  Mademoiselle, 
knitting  indefatigably.  Then  she  smiled.  "  You  see  I  know 
your  idioms." 

A  gradual  silence  fell  among  the  jabbering,  gesticulating, 
crowd.  All  eyes  were  directed  alternately  towards  the  glass  on 
the  mantel-piece  and  Mademoiselle  Brinska'ia. 

"  It  is  settled,"  Dolkovitch  declared. 

The  Polish  old  maid  rose  solemnly,  marched  towards  the  fire- 
place, and  inspected  the  glass  curiously,  noting  the  shape  which 
the  egg-white  had  taken. 

"  It  is  a  porte-cochere"  she  announced.    "  That  means  riches." 

There  was  a  buzz  of  satisfaction  and  a  little  hand -clapping, 
the  blinking  octogenarian  who  had  broken  the  egg  being  cheer- 
fully complimented  on  his  prospects. 

The  sibyl  did  not  return  to  Matthew  Strang's  side,  and  the 
vacant  niche  was  taken  by  a  stout,  elderly,  motherly  lady,  who 
was  introduced  to  him  as  the  Countess  de  Villiers,  and  who,  re- 
gardless of  the  fact  that  his  eyes  perpetually  wandered  towards 
the  door,  published  her  autobiography  to  him,  from  her  baby- 
hood in  Brazil  to  her  maturity  in  Gibraltar.  There  could  be  no 
close  to  her  story,  she  volunteered,  for  she  could  never  die. 

This  drew  Matthew's  attention  even  from  the  door. 

"  Do  you  mean  metaphorically  ?"  he  said. 

"  No,  literally.     You  could  not  kill  me  if  you  tried." 

"  What !     Not  with  a  knife  ?" 

"  Neither  with  fire  nor  sword." 

"You  know  I  wouldn't  try,"  he  said. 


360  THE    MASTER 

"  If  you  are  going  to  treat  me  facetiously  I  will  not  pursue 
the  subject,"  she  declared,  the  red  blood  mantling  in  her  sallow 
cheek. 

"  I  am  quite  serious,"  he  said,  deprecatingly. 

"  A  woman  who  can  live  without  eating  cannot  die,"  pursued 
the  Countess,  mollified.  "  I  was  an  invalid,  and  in  my  convales- 
cence gradually  worked  my  way  to  the  Truth,  and  by  means  of 
it  I  have  lived  fourteen  weeks  without  food.  I  worked  down 
from  five  ounces  a  day  to  nothing,  dropping  an  ounce  a  day. 
And  I  didn't  lose  a  pound  of  flesh." 

"I  have  fasted,  too,"  he  said,  grimly.  "But  I  never  found 
any  Truth  through  it."  He  reflected  bitterly  on  the  anxious 
competition  of  people  to  give  him  food,  now  that  he  had  plenty 
of  his  own.  Was  this  the  London  which  he  had  tramped  for 
work,  famished  and  rebellious  ? 

"You  must  be  patient,"  she  answered,  earnestly.  "  You  must 
kill  the  man  in  you ;  then  you  will  have  got  rid  of  the  mortal 
part.  You  will  be  pure  spirit,  part  of  God.  Existence  is  only 
God's  thoughts  ;  everything  good  is  a  God-idea,  everything  evil 
a  man-idea.  Jesus  was  the  first  discoverer  of  the  Truth,  and 
only  the  man-idea  in  Him  was  crucified,  the  mortal  part.  Only 
the  evil  part  of  us  is  mortal.  I  have  suppressed  the  man-idea  in 
myself,  therefore  I  cannot  die." 

"  But  do  you  mean  to  say  you  will  always  live  on  ?" 

"  Yes,  though  not  necessarily  on  earth." 

"  But  what  will  happen — will  you  disappear  ?" 

She  frowned.  "  Oh,  I  know  you  are  making  fun  of  me  ;  but 
I  assure  you  many  eminent  men  have  sat  at  my  feet.  Even 
Dolkovitch  says  I  have  a  greater  grip  of  the  Truth — the  glori- 
ous Truth  of  immortality — than  any  other  woman  in  Europe, 
except  Mademoiselle  Brinskaia  and  the  clairvoyant  Princess 
Stevanovna.  There  is  nothing  miraculous.  I  don't  keep  away 
from  society,  I  dance  and  paint,  but  throughout  all  I  am  strug- 
gling against  the  bad-self." 

"  What  sort  of  things  do  you  paint  ?"  he  asked,  feeling  for 
firmer  ground. 

"  My  vision  !"  she  said,  in  rapt  tones.  "  My  assurance  that 
the  universe  is  all  living  spirit." 


361 

And  all  of  a  sudden  a  conviction  came  to  him  that  she  was 
right,  that  there  was  no  death,  no  room  for  death.  Eleanor 
Wyndwood  had  arrived,  and  in  the  light  of  her  face  the  noisy, 
motley  throng  took  meaning  and  music.  He  rose  eagerly,  but 
she  did  not  see  him  in  his  niche,  and  he  sat  down  again  awk- 
wardly. The  Countess  talked  on,  but  he  had  forgotten  even 
to  feign  the  listener.  He  could  only  see  the  gleam  of  a  creamy 
dress  in  rifts  of  the  crowd,  which  thickened  momently.  Pres- 
ently he  was  aware  of  Miss  Regan,  who  gave  him  an  abrupt 
bow,  and  then  crossing  over  to  him  said,  in  vexed  accents : 

"  I  am  very  angry  with  you.  How  are  you,  Countess  ? 
Young  as  ever,  I  see." 

"  What  have  I  done  ?"  inquired  Matthew  Strang. 

"  You've  spoiled  my  hat-rack.  There's  a  chimney-pot  on  it. 
Life  has  so  few  pleasures  one  can't  afford  to  be  robbed." 

"  Oh,  please  forgive  me,"  he  said,  half  seriously. 

"  I  sha'n't — you're  too  respectable." 

"  Tell  me  something  Bohemian,  and  I'll  do  it,"  he  pleaded. 

"  Well,  come  to  tea  with  me  some  five  o'clock — with  me  and 
Nor,  that  is." 

"  Is  that  very  Bohemian  ?" 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Olive,  glumly.  Then,  brightening 
up.  "  But  that's  only  a  beginning.  And  you  haven't  got  time 
to  come,  either.  That  makes  it  a  pleasure." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  find  time,"  he  said,  looking  his 
words.  While  they  were  discussing  dates,  the  Countess  rose 
and  stalked  away. 

"  She  looks  offended,"  he  said. 

"  Poor  old  Countess  !"  said  Olive,  "  she's  breaking  up  fast." 

"  But  she's  going  to  live  forever." 

"  I  know.  How  sad !  We  came  across  her  at  Rome — the 
eternal  lady  in  the  eternal  city.  She's  much  grayer  since  then. 
Earthly  immortality  seems  almost  as  horrible  as  heavenly. 
Fancy  living  for  ever  and  ever  and  ever.  No  rest  for  the 
righteous !  Oh,  I  do  hope  religion  isn't  true.  How's  your 
friend  ?" 

"Which  friend?" 

"  The  brutal  friend  !" 


362  THE    MASTER 

"You're  a  queer  girl,"  he  said,  laughing  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  That's  tautology.  All  girls  are  queer.  Did  you  ever  know 
a  woman  absolutely  sane  ?" 

He  winced  a  little — shadows  of  his  mother  and  his  wife 
flashed  past.  She  answered  herself,  triumphantly. 

"  Of  course  not.  We've  all  got  bees  in  our  bonnets.  Men 
haven't  even  got  bonnets.  Except  Highlanders.  And  they 
don't  wear  the  breeches.  I  beg  pardon,  I  should  have  said 
*  unmentionables '  to  a  member  of  the  chimney-potted  classes. 
But  that  always  seems  silly.  It's  like  spelling  '  damn  '  in  books 
with  a  *  d '  and  a  blank.  I  have  a  lovely  private  swear.  Would 
you  like  to  hear  it  ?" 

He  laughed  assent. 

"  Damakakaparatanasuta  f  The  pink  lady,  who  always  for- 
gets her  bodice,  is  looking  shocked.  She  doesn't  know  it's 
Sanscrit,  or  something,  and  means :  '  The  foundation  of  the 
kingdom  of  righteousness.'  Don't  laugh,  it  really  does.  There 
is  a  cousin  of  the  Guicowar  of  Baroda  over  there — you  can  ask 
him.  Why,  I  have  even  got  Nor  to  swear  to  swear  it.  It's 
like  temperance  champagne." 

"  Ah  !  I'd  better  go  over  to  her,"  he  said,  snapping  at  the 
opportunity.  "  Or  else  she'll  accuse  me  of  cutting  her  again." 

He  pushed  a  whit  rudely  through  the  teacup  -  balancing 
throng.  But  to  his  horror  he  found  Eleanor  distributing  fare- 
wells. 

She  smiled  faintly  at  him,  as  her  magnetic  fingers  touched 
his  for  a  moment. 

"What  wicked  things  have  you  been  saying  to  Mademoiselle 
Brinskaia  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "  I've  hardly  said  a  word 
to  her." 

She  shook  her  head  and  passed  towards  the  door.  He  spent 
some  wretched  days,  wondering  if  he  had  offended  her,  and 
what  the  little  yellow  woman  had  been  saying  about  him.  He 
put  the  question  as  soon  as  he  was  seated  at  the  tea-table  in 
the  dainty  drawing-room  of  the  tiny  May  fair  house  which  the 
oddly  assorted  couple  had  taken  for  the  season.  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood  would  not  say,  but  Miss  Regan  cried  out : 


363 

"  Don't  make  such  a  mystery,  Nor ;  you'll  make  the  man 
think  he's  accused  of  murder,  or  drinking  his  tea  out  of  a 
saucer.  The  Polish  priestess  says  she  doesn't  like  your  auras 
— voila  tout  /" 

"  What  are  auras  ?"  he  asked,  relieved  and  puzzled. 

"  The  Latin  for  airs,  of  course,"  laughed  Olive.  "  It's  her 
mystical  way  of  saying  you  give  yourself  airs.  Yes,  you  do. 
You're  disapproving  of  our  furniture  now.  But  it's  through 
Nor's  objecting  to  furniture  that  suited  my  complexion  and 
vice  versa.  We  compromised  by  getting  furniture  in  discord 
with  both  our  complexions.  The  beautiful  photos  you  see  all 
about  you  are  mine — I  mean  my  collection.  They  are  actresses. 
I  adore  beautiful  women.  After  what  you  told  me  about  the  un- 
importance of  the  likeness  I  shall  consider  them  works  of  art.  I 
have  always  thought  that  actresses'  photographs  are  intended 
as  a  protection  against  the  curiosity  of  the  public.  But  for 
them,  actresses  would  be  liable  to  be  recognized  and  mobbed 
in  the  streets.  Great  Heavens  !  I've  forgotten  the  scones." 
And  with  this  unexpected  exclamation,  Olive  rushed  out  of  the 
room. 

"  She  would  insist  on  baking  scones  herself,"  Mrs.Wyndwood 
explained  with  an  affectionate  smile. 

"  She  is  deliciously  odd,"  he  replied,  laughing, 

"  Do  you  find  her  so  ?  I've  got  used  to  her.  There's  a  mo- 
notony in  the  variety.  Behind  it  all  I  see  always  this  one  fact 
— she's  the  noblest  creature  in  the  world." 

He  was  touched  by  the  enthusiastic  tribute,  so  different  from 
Olive's  amused  estimate  of  her  friend. 

"  You  must  find  it  very  pleasant  to  live  with  her,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  especially  after  " —  But  she  shuddered,  and  did  not 
complete  the  sentence.  He  read  in  her  face  the  tragedy  of  an 
unhappy  marriage.  His  eyes  grew  moist  with  pity ;  he  felt  a 
mad,  fighting  passion  against  the  inevitable  past. 

"  Olive  is  so  good,"  she  said,  brokenly,  "  she  was  of  my  hus- 
band's family — an  Irish  branch — but  she  quarrelled  with  them 
all — her  father,  her  sisters — and  came  to  live  with  me.  Fortu- 
nately she  is  immensely  rich  in  her  own  right,  and  independent 
of  them  all." 


364  THE    MASTER 

"  Done  to  a  turn !"  cried  Miss  Regan,  rushing  in  with  the 
scones.  "  And  I  feared  I  was  King  Alfred  !" 

At  tea  they  talked  Art. 

It  was  an  exquisite  sensation  to  have  these  charming  ladies 
treat  him  as  Sir  Oracle.  He  was  surprised  to  learn  that  in 
her  girlhood  Miss  Regan  had  displayed  considerable  talent  for 
sculpture,  but  had  "  washed  her  hands  of  the  clay  "  on  seeing 
the  torso  of  Victory  in  the  Louvre.  He  remonstrated  with  her, 
insisting  that  technical  skill  came  slowly,  with  infinite  labor. 
There  were  things  he  himself  wanted  to  do — all  sorts  of  new 
things  that  he  had  never  yet  done.  One  day  he  would  try  to  do 
them — when  he  had  time.  Mrs.  Wyndwood  spoke  contemptu- 
ously of  technical  skill  in  comparison  with  soul,  but  here  Olive 
mischievously  took  up  the  cudgels  for  craftsmanship,  and  led  the 
rather  reluctant  painter  into  an  eloquent  exposition  of  the  joys 
of  technical  mastery  ;  of  doing  what  you  would  with  your  ma- 
terial. Mrs.  Wyndwood  at  last  caught  the  fire  of  his  enthusi- 
asm, and  astonished  him  by  expressing  his  sense  of  the  joy  of 
Art  better  than  himself.  Under  the  passion  of  her  words  he 
wondered  that  he  could  ever  have  wasted  his  time  on  portraits 
for  mere  money,  or  on  scamped  pictures  for  Exhibitions,  when 
all  these  interesting  problems  were  waiting  to  be  wrought  out. 
Ah,  but  Miss  Regan  was  wrong,  he  felt,  in  thinking  these  prob- 
lems the  be-all  and  end-all  of  Art ;  it  was  soul  that  was  the  es- 
sence of  Art ;  Art  had  no  raison  d'etre  except  as  the  expression 
of  soul,  of  the  upward  aspiration  of  the  Spirit  towards  the  Good 
and  the  Beautiful  and  the  True,  a  trinity  that  was  mysteriously 
one. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FERMENT 


THE  sands  of  the  season  were  running  out,  but  Matthew 
Strang  sifted  them  for  every  grain  of  the  gold  of  meetings  with 
Eleanor  Wyndwood.  He  was  shy  of  formal  visits  to  the  house, 
he  did  not  venture  on  the  conventional  course  of  asking  her  to 


FERMENT  365 

sit  to  him,  for  he  would  not  consciously  feed  the  flame  of  a 
passion  that  must  be  hopeless.  But  with  that  curious  illogicali- 
ty which  distinguishes  man  from  the  brute, he  called  in  accident 
to  arrange  their  rendezvous,  pursuing  possibility  with  a  perse- 
verance that  made  it  probability. 

He  could  not  follow  Eleanor  to  all  her  fashionable  fastnesses 
as  easily  as  to  the  shrines  of  spirituality,  for  to  be  born  well 
is  still  a  necessity  of  life  in  some  circles  ;  but  they  met  often 
enough  amid  the  monotonous  glitter  which  was  the  woman's 
birthright  and  second  nature  to  the  man.  His  eye  perpetually 
sought  her ;  in  chattering  drawing-rooms,  in  cool  gardens,  on 
congested  staircases,  in  whirling  ballrooms ;  finding  every  place 
dark  and  empty  till  she  filled  and  illumined  the  scene.  She 
gleamed  upon  him  as  unreal  and  insubstantial  as  the  figures  he 
had  once  noted  in  one  of  these  ballrooms,  completely  girdled 
by  electric  lights,  which,  robbing  the  dancers  of  shadows,  made 
them  fairy-like  and  phantasmal.  But  he  did  not  follow  out  the 
analogy  or  suspect  it  might  be  his  own  love  which  was  surround- 
ing her  with  this  spiritualizing  electric  illumination.  Each  time 
he  saw  her  he  resolved  never  to  see  her  again.  He  could  never 
tell  her  what  was  in  his  heart,  never  insult  her  exquisite  purity 
with  the  avowal  of  his  love,  even  though  that  love  were  clarified 
to  unimagined  ethereality  by  her  stainless  radiance  of  soul.  And 
each  time  the  possibility  of  seeing  her  drew  nigh  again,  he  told 
himself  that  he  needed  her  for  his  Art — that  she  was  drawing 
him  up  from  the  slough  of  banality,  that  now  for  the  first  time 
his  soul  was  really  opening  out  to  the  appeal  of  the  higher  beau- 
ty. Not  that  he  had  as  yet  begun  to  express  the  higher  beauty; 
he  had  simply  abandoned  the  old.  He  was  too  restless  to  work, 
to  concentrate  himself;  he  flitted  between  the  unfinished  and  the 
projected,  painting  in  and  painting  out;  he  took  long  rides  in 
the  middle  of  the  day,  to  the  amazement  of  his  faithful  body- 
servant  ;  he  read  emotional  literature.  Once  an  unconscious 
hostess  gave  him  Eleanor's  company  at  dinner.  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood  was  in  stately  black,  with  a  bunch  of  violets  at  her  bosom. 
It  was  an  enchanted  meal.  They  talked  of  poetry,  and  he  seemed 
to  be  dining  off  poetry  too.  The  wines  were  special  brands  of 
nectar,  laid  down  by  the  gods  in  the  golden  age,  the  meats  were 


366  THE    MASTER 

ambrosia,  the  sweets  honey-dew.  A  beauty  as  of  Hebe  trans- 
figured the  faces  of  the  neat-handed  waiting-men.  It  seemed 
only  natural  that  the  beautiful  stately  creature  at  his  side  should 
overflow  with  quotations  from  religious  poetry — was  she  not  her- 
self a  religious  poem  ?  His  recent  feverish  readings  had  branded 
lines  on  his  own  heart ;  he  was  able  to  answer  her  in  lyric  antiph- 
ony.  His  other  neighbor  he  simply  forgot,  though  she  was  a 
bishop's  consort  and  a  patroness  of  the  arts,  with  printed  views 
on  the  genuineness  of  Old  Masters.  There  was  an  old  picture 
of  his  own  on  the  opposite  wall,  and  the  fear  lest  Eleanor  should 
raise  her  eyes  to  it  was  all  the  serpent  in  his  Paradise.  His 
subconsciousness  noted  with  pleasure,  however,  that  the  painting 
had  mellowed — a  proof  that  his  theory  of  colors  was  right. 

He  watched  with  furtive  fascination  the  play  of  Eleanor's 
beautiful  Botticelli  hands,  plying  her  knife  and  fork,  as  she  ex- 
plained how  under  the  influence  of  Dolkovitch  she  had  drifted 
away  from  Socialism,  whose  professors  always  laid  too  much 
stress  on  the  needs  of  the  body.  But  she  apologized  for  having 
spoken  rudely  of  his  "  Triumph  of  Bacchus  "  from  a  mere  knowl- 
edge of  its  title ;  he  had  made  her  understand  now  that  the  ap- 
peal of  painting  must  always  be  sensuous,  and  that  subject  was 
only  an  excuse  for  draughtsmanship  and  coloring,  and  she  star- 
tled him  by  saying  she  liked  that  picture  of  his  on  the  opposite 
wall,  which  he  had  been  hoping  had  escaped  her  eye.  It  became 
at  once  glorified  to  his  own. 

After  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  gentlemen  talked  about  a 
newly  invented  torpedo,  the  finances  of  India,  and  the  prospects 
of  the  Conservatives  ;  the  conversation  sounded  almost  indecent, 
and  he  was  glad  Eleanor  was  not  there  to  hear  it.  He  took  no 
part  in  the  fatuous  discussion,  contenting  himself  with  watching 
Eleanor's  face  amid  the  wreaths  of  his  cigar-smoke ;  even  in  the 
flesh  the  face  had  for  him  something  of  this  vaporous,  elusive  in- 
corporeality. 

In  the  drawing-room  the  inevitable  Miss  Regan  claimed  his 
attention.  Eleanor  was  playing  Mendelssohn,  and  he  would  have 
liked  to  listen,  but  Olive  was  less  original. 

"  You  have  never  honored  our  five-o'clocks  again,"  she  said, 
reproachfully. 


FERMENT  367 

He  murmured  that  he  was  busy. 

"  That  was  the  charm  of  your  coming,"  she  reminded  him. 
"  One  had  the  sensation  of  beguiling  you  to  play  truant.  But 
I  suppose  the  tea  was  bad.  Nor  would  make  it." 

"  The  tea  was  beautiful,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  But  aren't  we 
disturbing  the  music  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary.  Nor  is  giving  us  "  Lieder  ohne  Worte,5 
and  we  have  to  supply  the  words.  I  wonder  what  makes  her 
play  such  old-fashioned  school-girl  things.  Then  it  must  have 
been  the  scones." 

He  shook  his  head  and  pursed  his  lips,  and  the  music  flowed 
on  like  a  lovely  moonlit  stream.  He  was  drifting  on  the  stream 
with  Eleanor,  as,  in  those  far-off  days  of  young  romance,  he  had 
dreamed  of  lovers  drifting.  A  mystic  silver  haze  was  shed 
from  the  moon  that  sailed  softly  through  the  lambent  starry 
sky,  the  whisper  of  the  wind  among  the  trees  and  the  quiet 
lapping  of  the  water  made  a  dulcet  stillness  that  was  punctuated 
by  the  passionate  "  jug-jug "  of  the  nightingale ;  mysterious 
palaces  of  night  glided  along  the  banks  behind  dim  gardens 
wafting  drowsy  odors.  The  thought  shook  him  that  the  world 
held  such  lovers — lovers  who  were  not  brought  together  for  a 
moment  and  hurled  apart  in  the  accidental  whirl  of  society 
atoms,  lovers  whose  lips  were  not  eternally  sundered,  but  lovers 
who  were  each  other's  sunshine  and  moonlight  and  music,  daily, 
nightly,  perennially.  He  alone  was  doomed  to  eternal  loneli- 
ness— nay,  to  that  aggravated  form  of  loneliness  which  is 
shared  with  a  life-long  partner. 

"  I  came  across  your  cynical  friend  the  other  day." 

He  started,  becoming  conscious  that  his  eyes  were  full  of 
sweet,  hopeless  tears. 

"  Indeed,"  he  murmured  automatically. 

"  Yes,  the  cousin  you  told  me  of." 

"  Did  I  tell  you  of  him  ?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  you  told  me  he  said  all  women  are  in 
the  same  trade  ?  Well,  he  is  veritably  a  cynic  of  cynics,  for  he 
candidly  informed  me,  after  I  had  been  bantering  and  mystify- 
ing him  with  my  foreknowledge  of  him,  that  he  had  simply 
quoted  Schopenhauer." 


368  THE    MASTER 

"  Where  did  you  meet  him  ?"  he  asked,  a  little  interested. 

"  At  the  Dudley-Heatons's  reception  a  fortnight  ago.  I  call 
him  the  Minister  of  the  Interior,  he's  such  an  epicure — the 
politician,  I  mean,  not  your  cousin.  There  was  Lord  Fash- 
borough  there,  the  man  who's  just  been  appointed  president 
of  the  Cruelty  to  Children  Commission,  and  who  glittered  with 
stars  and  orders  like  a  comic-opera  Begum.  He  it  was  intro- 
duced your  cousin — at  my  request,  of  course.  Your  cousin 
told  me  the  Begum  and  he  had  travelled  together  in  Spain, 
when  the  Begum's  appetite  for  bull -fights  and  cock-fights 
was  insatiable.  I  have  never  been  in  Spain,  and  two  of  my 
favorite  illusions  were  destroyed  at  one  fell  blow.  It  seems  that 
they  simply  push  reluctant,  decrepit  old  horses  on  to  the  horns 
of  the  bulls.  And  then  the  Spanish  women  !  Your  cousin 
describes  them  as  ugly  and  unwashed." 

He  shuddered.  Why  would  Miss  Regan  perversely  obtrude 
the  prose  of  life  upon  his  consciousness  ?  He  would  not  answer 
her — he  tried  to  drift  again  with  the  magic  stream,  but  the  spell 
was  broken.  He  knew  it  was  Eleanor's  music  that  made  the 
pictures,  and  that  the  odors  came  from  the  flowers  at  Olive's 
throat. 

"  He  is  painting  Nor's  portrait,"  she  went  on,  indifferently. 

He  had  to  answer  her  now — in  a  stifled  interrogative,  masking 
a  sudden  sharp  agony  and  foreboding. 

"What,  Herbert?" 

"  Yes ;  he  asked  her  to  give  him  some  sittings.  He  hasn't 
altogether  become  a  critic,  you  see." 

"  Who  introduced  him  to  her  ?" 

"  I  did,  of  course." 

"  But  his  request  was  rather  hasty,  wasn't  it !" 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  the  first  time.  We  met  him  again  at  the 
Russian  Embassy." 

"And  how  does  Mrs.  Wyndwood  know  he  can  paint?" 

Olive  laughed  quietly.  "  Oh,  he  said  so.  He  usually  tells 
the  truth,  I  fancy.  But  he  is  an  artist,  isn't  he  ?" 

"  He  was  a  Gold  Medallist  of  the  Royal  Academy,"  he  an- 
swered, with  unaccustomed  bitterness.  A  mad  envy  was  con- 
suming him.  Why  had  he  not  asked  Mrs.  Wyndwood  to  sit  to 


FERMENT  369 

him,  seeing-  that  her  consent  was  so  facile  ?  Was  he  always  to 
stand  by  while  the  best  of  life  was  seized  and  carried  off  by  the 
bolder,  the  more  reckless,  nay,  by  the  more  unworthy  ?  The 
remembrance  that  Herbert  had  the  right,  and  he  had  not,  did 
not  dilute  his  bitterness,  though  it  brought  a  hot  flush  to  his 
cheek.  Who  was  he  to  see  profanation  in  the  juxtaposition 
of  Eleanor  with  a  man  like  Herbert  ?  However  ignoble  Her- 
bert's conception  of  womanhood,  had  not  he  himself  always 
found  him  lovable  ? 

"  Aren't  you  friends  ?"  Olive  asked,  divining  alienation  in 
his  tone. 

He  felt  remorseful.  "  Oh,  we  are  great  friends,"  he  answered, 
with  cordial  warmth.  "  He  was  very  kind  to  me  when  I  first 
came  to  London." 

"  He  asked  me  to  sit  as  well,"  Olive  pursued,  satisfied. 

Matthew  Strang  felt  the  tension  in  his  brain  relax. 

"  And  are  you  going  to  ?" 

"No.  I  hate  flattery.  So  I  sacrificed  Nor  instead.  Of 
course  I  shall  go  and  sit  by  her,  though  not  with  her.  Curious, 
the  subtleties  of  language." 

"  Then  you  will  still  chaperon  her,"  he  said,  with  a  joyous 
smile. 

"  I  never  neglect  a  pleasant  duty,"  she  answered,  placidly. 
"  But  we  can  only  give  him  a  few  sittings." 

"  Ah  !"  he  interrupted,  with  an  involuntary  exclamation  of 
relief. 

"  We're  leaving  town." 

He  looked  blank  now.     "  Are  you,  indeed  ?" 

"  Of  course.  Why  are  you  surprised  ?  Didn't  you  think  we 
were  proper  ?  Nor  wanted  the  eternal  Homburg  or  Switzer- 
land, but  I'm  resolved  to  show  her  England.  Like  most  trav- 
elled cockneys,  she  thinks  England's  the  capital  of  London,  and 
I  want  to  teach  her  geography,  so  we're  off  to  Devonshire." 

"  She  will  enjoy  Devonshire  scenery." 

"  Yes,  especially  the  Creamery.  That's  what  I've  christened 
the  little  God -forsaken  village  I  discovered.  So  you  know,  if 
you  ever  want  a  cup  of  tea,  we  shall  have  five-o'clocks  going  on 
there  also.  Patronize  the  Creamery." 

24 


370  THE    MASTER 

"I  will,"  he  said,  with  an  instant  resolution  to  take  tea  both 
in  Mayfair  and  in  Devonshire. 

"  That's  right.  We'll  send  a  coach-and-four  to  meet  you.  At 
least,  you'll  find  it  waiting  at  the  station  for  passengers.  Do 
you  know  whom  I  should  like  to  meet  most  of  all  men  liv- 
ing?" 

"  Wagner  ?     The  Pope  ?     The  Czar  ?" 

"  Don't  be  absurd.  The  Rev.  Septimus  Wheercastle.  A  local 
guide-book  says,  *  The  Rev.  Septimus  Wheercastle  speaks  in 
very  favorable  terms  of  the  Undercliff.'  Isn't  it  delicious? 
Imagine  a  gentleman  in  a  white  tie  patronizing  an  Undercliff  ! 
But,  then,  the  clergy  are  always  patronizing  the  Almighty,  so 
why  not  His  works  ?" 

"  Hush,"  he  said,  indicating  the  proximity  of  the  Bishop. 

"  Isn't  he  beautiful  ?"  she  asked,  in  an  awed  whisper.  "  What 
a  privilege  never  to  be  mistaken  for  a  waiter  !  I  am  so  proud 
of  the  bishops  in  my  family.  We  have  a  pair,  with  gaiters  to 
match,  both  High  Church  atheists ;  they  are  the  joys  of  my 
life,  they  and  the  dowager  duchess,  who  wears  kiss-curls  and 
raves  for  blood.  'Give  me  blood  !'  she  cries,  as  she  denounces 
modern  society,  stabbing  her  potato  with  her  fork  a  la  Sarah 
Siddons." 

To  Matthew  Strang,  who  still  had  a  vague  reverence  for  duch- 
esses, it  was  troubling  to  see  them  through  the  eyes  of  relatives 
for  whom  they  were  common  clay.  But  this  had  always  been 
his  disappointment,  the  further  he  penetrated  into  the  arcana 
of  aristocracy  and  into  the  ranks  of  the  distinguished — nobody 
ever  seemed  quite  so  imposing  as  his  or  her  name  in  the  paper. 
Taken  in  the  mass,  aristocracy  of  birth  or  brain  was  dazzling, 
overwhelming ;  but  the  individual  was  always  amiably  imper- 
fect, with  the  exception,  of  course,  of  the  one  perfect  being  in 
the  universe,  Eleanor  Wyndwood. 

"  You  don't  think  much  of  your  family,  Miss  Regan,"  he 
said,  smiling. 

"  No,  and  they  return  the  compliment.  They  don't  realize 
how  near  Doomsday  is  for  us  aristocrats.  We  must  disappear. 
We  have  played  our  part." 

"  What  part  ?" 


FERMENT  37l 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  the  upper  classes,  the  people 
of  leisure,  existed  to  evolve  culture.  That  can  now  be  grafted 
on  to  the  artisan,  and  both  the  upper  and  the  lower  classes  can 
disappear.  We  want  the  amalgam  now  —  culture  without  its 
vices,  and  work  without  its  vulgarity." 

"  Shall  we  ever  get  what  we  want  ?" 

She  smiled  with  ineffable  sadness  and  weariness.  "  I  some- 
times think  that  that  makes  life  worth  living.  That  and  bish- 
ops. This  is  the  only  world  in  which  bishops  could  happen. 
There  is  some  consolation,  too,  in  Royal  Drawing-rooms  and 
kangaroos.  Do  you  think  there  is  any  other  planet  in  which 
ladies  walk  backward  or  animals  hop  ?  I  wonder.  When  one 
feels  weary  of  the  burden  of  existence,  one  thinks  of  the  humor 
of  Creation  and  stays  on.  It  is  a  delicious  world." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  enjoy  the  imperfections  of  life  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  mean.  I  hate  to  see  ill-fed  people,  and 
I  hate  to  see  well-fed  people.  Unhappy  people  pain  me  and 
happy  people  irritate  me.  What  do  I  mean  ?  Oh,  I  think  I 
see  it  at  last.  It  is  the  unintelligent  people  that  I  hate  to  see 
unhappy,  and  the  intelligent  people  that  I  hate  to  see  happy. 
People  who  have  brains  and  are  happy  can't  have  souls.  The 
fools  ought  to  have  creature  comforts  because  they  are  fools 
enough  to  value  them  before  all  else.  How  I  envy  my  maid's 
capacity  for  envying  me !  Thank  you,  Mr.  Strang,  you  have 
enabled  me  to  understand  myself." 

The  music  stopped,  but  the  player  was  at  once  monopolized 
by  the  bishop.  Fragments  of  their  conversation  reached  the 
ears  of  the  couple. 

"  She's  trying  to  convert  him  to  Christianity,"  Olive  observed, 
gravely ;  "  didn't  I  tell  you  she  was  the  most  unpractical  creat- 
ure ?  She's  always  leading  forlorn  hopes." 

"  How  is  Herbert — my  cousin — painting  her  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh  !  he's  only  had  one  sitting.  She's  to  be  done  a  V ordi- 
naire, but  she  had  her  hair  dressed  specially — such  a  waste  of 
time — and  was  manicured,  and  the  man  took  as  long  manicur- 
ing her  as  if  she  had  been  Briareus." 

"  I  mean,  what  will  she  wear  ?" 

"  Oh !  a  sentimental  expression — the  sort  of  look  you  see  in 


372  THE    MASTER 

a  girl's  face  when  she's  sitting  on  the  stairs  with  her  hand  in  a 
man's." 

A  shudder  traversed  her  shoulders,  crinkling  the  blue  bodice 
that  covered  them.  "  For  the  rest,  she  will  be  clothed  in  one 
of  those  creamy  low-necked  gowns  that  become  her  so  well." 

Before  the  evening  was  over  Olive  was  induced  to  sing. 
Matthew  Strang  was  startled  to  find  her  choosing  a  love-song, 
and  he  was  as  astonished  by  the  passionate  intensity  of  her  vo- 
calization as  by  the  beauty  of  her  rich  contralto  voice. 

"Ninon,  Ninon"  she  sang.  "  Quefais-tu  de  la  vie — toi  qui 
n1  as  pas  d*  amour?"  And  the  notes  melted  exquisitely  in  pity. 
The  tears  returned  to  his  eyes.  It  was  his  tragedy,  it  was  Elea- 
nor's tragedy,  it  was  everybody's  tragedy.  "  Ninon,  Ninon,  que 
fais-tu  de  la  vie  £" 

Very  few  days  went  by  before  he  rang  Mrs.  Wyndwood's  bell. 
The  mental  image  of  Eleanor  sitting  to  Herbert  was  the  motor 
that  drove  him  to  call.  He  had  only  seen  his  volatile  cousin 
once  or  twice  since  they  had  dined  together  at  the  Limners' 
— Herbert  Strang's  curious  facility  for  taking  up  and  dropping 
people  had  persisted  unchanged.  But  the  couple  were  destined 
to  meet  now,  for  victorias  and  hansoms  hovered  outside  Mrs. 
Wyndwood's  house,  and  Matthew  Strang  found  that  he  had 
stumbled  upon  a  formal  "  At  Home,"  at  which  Herbert  was 
fetching  and  carrying  strawberry -ices  to  perspiring  beauty.  The 
popular  painter  noted  with  a  novel  thrill  of  alarm  the  boyish 
good  looks  of  his  friend,  whose  spruce,  smiling  figure  was  so 
visibly  the  cynosure  of  feminine  eyes.  Happily  for  his  peace 
of  mind,  Eleanor  was  too  busy  welcoming  her  miscellaneous 
visitors  to  allot  much  attention  to  Herbert,  who  seemed,  in- 
deed, amply  content  with  engaging  the  interest  of  half  a  doz- 
en fair  women,  not  counting  an  occasional  interlude  of  Miss  Re- 
gan. Matthew  Strang  slowly  ploughed  his  way  to  the  hostess, 
a  cool-looking  angel  in  white,  through  the  block  of  bonneted 
ladies,  amid  which  an  occasional  man  stood  out  unpicturesque. 

"  You  seem  surprised  to  see  me,"  he  said,  in  low  tones,  into 
which  he  infused  an  intimate  note. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Eleanor,  with  a  little  frank  laugh.  "  How 
did  you  know  it  was  my  day  ?" 


FERMENT  373 

He  smiled  mysteriously,  wondering  the  while  if  she  could 
hear  his  heart  beat  above  the  feminine  babble. 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  come,"  pursued  Eleanor,  with  a  little 
pout  that  made  her  face  adorable.  "  We  pay  you  the  compli- 
ment of  not  asking  you  to  our  tea-fights,  and  this  is  how  you 
appreciate  it." 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  intoxicatingly  nattered.  "  I  do  ap- 
preciate it.  I  didn't  know.  I  came  for  a  cup  of  tea,  with  no 
idea  of  fighting  for  it." 

"  Then  let  me  give  it  you.     Do  you  take  sugar  ?" 

And  she  handed  him  the  cup,  which  he  took  with  a  hand 
that  trembled.  Then  a  press  of  fresh  people  cut  him  off  from 
her,  and  she  made  no  effort  to  keep  him  by  her  side.  Gloom 
invaded  his  breast  again.  He  had  to  speak  to  some  of  the 
crowd,  and  he  did  his  duty  with  ill  grace.  He  feared  it  would 
be  too  presumptuous  to  outstay  the  intrusive  crew,  so  he  re- 
solved to  escape  as  soon  as  possible.  But  Herbert  captured 
him  with  a  hearty  hand-shake,  and  introduced  him — with  a  cer- 
tain proprietary  pride — to  his  bevy  of  dames,  and  he  was  per- 
force added  to  the  applausive  circle  in  the  centre  of  which  Her- 
bert quizzed  the  rest  of  the  company  and  the  universe  at  large. 

"  Isn't  that  Lily  O'Reilly  talking  with  Mrs.  Wyndwood  ?"  he 
said,  catching  Olive's  passing  eye. 

"  Sure,  and  it  is  that,"  answered  Olive,  permitting  the  eye  an 
unwonted  roguish  twinkle.  "  She  is  talking  about  her  new 
novel." 

"  Wonderful  woman,"  soliloquized  Herbert  for  the  benefit  of 
his  galaxy.  "  She  is  more  read  by  the  superfine  critics  than 
any  other  lady  novelist  in  London." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Strang,"  protested  Lady  William  Dallox,  a  petite, 
elegant  creature  with  an  air  of  having  stepped  off  a  decorative 
panel,  "  why,  the  critics  all  slate  her  awfully." 

"  I  know.  But  that's  her  revenge — to  threaten  her  reviewers 
with  libel  actions,  so  that  they  have  to  read  her  to  see  if  she  de- 
served their  slatings." 

"You're  a  saucy  cynic,  sir,"  said  Olive,  laughingly. 

"  What  is  a  cynic  ?"  airily  retorted  Herbert.  "  An  accurate 
observer  of  life." 


374  THE    MASTER 

"Beyond  that  definition  cynicism  cannot  go,"  said  Olive, 
ceasing  to  smile. 

"  What  a  pity !"  said  Herbert.  "  At  any  rate,  it  is  true  as 
far  as  it  goes.  To  call  Miss  O'Reilly's  hair  chamelon-colored 
would  be  considered  cynical.  Yet  it  is  but  accurate  observation. 
The  inaccurate  observer  of  life  would  call  it  auburn,  not  seeing 
that  it  is  only  auburn  pro  tern.,  and  that  it  goes  through  as  many 
editions  as  her  books.  Similarly,  to  call  her  complexion  hand- 
painted — " 

"  Would  be  rudeness,"  interrupted  Olive,  more  severely, 
"  especially  as  I  heard  her  asking  Mrs.  Wyndwood  to  introduce 
to  her  the  young  man  who  looked  so  much  like  the  hero  of  one 
of  her  novels." 

"  Ah,  that  puts  another  complexion  on  the  matter,"  said 
Herbert,  lightly.  Under  cover  of  the  confusion  of  feminine 
compliment  that  greeted  the  quick  sally,  Matthew  Strang 
slipped  away,  leaden-hearted,  from  the  sight  of  the  smiles  and 
the  sound  of  the  laughter.  Even  had  he  been  free,  what  chance 
would  he  have  had,  pitted  against  his  brilliant  cousin  ?  He 
knew  himself  a  silent  man,  scarcely  speaking,  unless  abnormally 
moved,  much  less  scintillating.  He  had  only  one  talent — one 
poor  talent  for  expressing  the  Beautiful  to  one  sense — and  this 
one  talent  he  had  prostituted.  Everything  grew  black  to  his 
morbid  mood.  The  dying  afternoon,  cool,  sun-glinted,  had  no 
beauty  for  him  ;  the  speckless  grooms  outside  the  door  irritated 
him ;  the  shining  carriages  dashing  along  the  great  arteries  of 
the  West  End,  bearing  their  lolling  occupants  to  dress  and  din- 
ner, stirred  him  to  something  of  the  same  revolt  that  he  had 
felt  when  he  had  walked  the  metropolis  of  wealth  and  fashion 
in  broken  boots.  After  all,  he  had  never  really  entered  this 
circle  of  pleasure,  it  had  always  been  a  fairy-ring  he  could  not 
step  into.  Beautiful  as  his  boots  were  externally,  there  had 
always  been  a  nail,  a  pebble  inside  ;  that  adverse  atom  which, 
according  to  the  philosopher,  suffices  to  destroy  happiness. 
His  had  always  been  a  life  of  labor,  of  misery.  He  was  still 
of  the  down-trodden  classes,  of  those  whom  fate,  if  not  man, 
grinds  down,  whose  lives  slip  by  in  a  vain  yearning  for  the 
sun,  who  see  happiness  as  a  phantasm  that  is  only  solid  for 


FERMENT  375 

others,  and  love  as  the  mocking  mirage  of  a  beauty  that  is  far 
away.  He  was  angry — so  unreasonably  angry  that  the  unreason 
seemed  a  reason  for  fresh  anger  with  himself.  And  he  was 
angry,  not  only  with  himself,  but  with  Herbert,  with  the  world, 
aye,  with  Eleanor  Wyndwood  and  her  idle,  hare-brained  visitors, 
reeking  of  the  toilet-table,  chattering  of  poems,  pictures,  and 
symphonies. 

The  thought  of  his  mother  came  up  from  dim  recesses  of 
memory — still  babbling  in  the  asylum  that  was  her  haven  of 
refuge  after  a  life  of  storm  and  stress  and  sorrow  and  weary 
watchings  for  a  vagrant  mate — and  he  was  jealous  of  Eleanor 
for  her  sake,  jealous  of  her  beauty,  her  breeding,  her  wealth, 
her  fine  dresses,  her  carriage,  her  fashionable  visitors ;  jealous 
of  all  that  made  her  different  from  his  mother,  of  all  that  made 
her  life  fuller,  freer,  higher,  richer — of  all,  in  fine,  that  made 
him  love  her  !  Ah,  God,  how  he  loved  her  !  He  could  scarce- 
ly keep  back  the  hysteric  sobs  that  swelled  at  his  throat.  But 
they  had  always  been  shut  out  from  the  sunshine,  his  mother 
and  he.  Happiness  !  oh,  to  clasp  it,  to  hold  it  tight !  Nothing 
counted  except  happiness — ambition,  success,  art,  money,  alike 
vain  gauds,  shadows.  He  walked  past  his  turning,  and  far  be- 
yond. Lights  began  to  twinkle  in  the  great  tired  city  ;  the 
summer  evening  brooded,  fresh  and  cool,  over  the  vast  stretches 
of  dusty  stone.  When  at  last  he  reached  his  studio  the  sun 
had  set.  He  saw  the  pale  rose-glow,  mystically  tender,  at  the 
end  of  the  long  suburban  avenue  of  green  trees  and  yellow 
street-lamps  ;  it  spoke  to  him  of  peace  and  rest  and  resigna- 
tion, and  some  secret  beauty  behind  all. 

Not  many  days  later  his  restless  feet  took  him  again  to  the 
Mayfair  house.  He  would  speak  out  —  at  some  opportunity 
which  the  shrewd,  kindly  Olive  would  not  fail  to  afford  him — 
he  would  tell  Eleanor  all  she  meant  to  him,  how  she  was  be- 
coming the  pivot  of  his  thought,  how  she  and  she  alone  might 
inspire  his  art  to  higher  purpose.  He  would  not  ask  for  love, 
only  for  a  noble  friendship ;  he  needed  an  understanding  soul 
to  sympathize  with  his  inmost  self,  his  aspirations,  his  agonies. 
He  had  always  been  hedged  in  by  thick  barriers  of  ice,  through 
which  no  human  soul  had  ever  pierced.  No  one  knew  what 


376  THE    MASTER 

tinder  for  divine  fires  lay  awaiting  the  spark  within,  nor  how 
cold  and  lonely  he  felt  in  his  glacial  isolation. 

But  at  first  his  visit  threatened  to  be  even  more  disappointing 
than  the  last.  Another  man  was  taking  tea — or  rather,  eating 
nougat  with  Mrs.  Wyndwood  and  Miss  Regan  —  young  and 
fascinating  of  feature,  but  with  a  fatal  air  of  the  minor  poet. 
And  a  poet,  indeed,  he  proved  to  be :  a  poet  of  considerable 
pretensions,  who  might  win  the  bays  if  only  he  could  get  over 
his  unfortunate  appearance,  which  seemed  to  tie  him  down  to 
sugared  prettiness  and  elegant  concetti.  Matthew  Strang  had 
read  one  of  his  dainty,  gilt-edged  volumes,  wherein  dapper  lyrics 
posed  in  the  centre  of  broad-margined  pages,  and  he  wondered 
resentfully  why  Mrs.  Wyndwood  did  not  lecture  him  into  spirit- 
uality instead  of  feeding  him  with  nougat,  which  his  poetry 
already  resembled.  But  though  Harold  Lavender  was  accom- 
modating enough  to  go  soon,  Matthew  Strang  profited  little  by 
his  retirement  from  the  field,  for  Eleanor  seemed  to  be  in  a 
freakish  mood,  as  if  the  contagion  of  Olive  had  infected  her,  or 
the  nougat  had  made  her  terrestrial,  and  she  played  a  lively 
second  to  her  vivacious  friend  in  recapitulating  the  charms  of 
their  dog,  Roy,  a  slumbrous  Scotch  collie,  that  he  had  barely 
noted  before,  but  which  now  became  the  climax  of  creation. 

"  We've  only  hired  him,"  Mrs.  Wyndwood  explained.  "  Lady 
Arthur,  to  whom  the  house  belongs,  asked  us  to  take  charge  of 
him,  so  he's  in  the  inventory.  His  father  was  a  pedigree  dog, 
and  won  five  hundred  guineas." 

"  Yes,  her  ladyship  had  him  catalogued  completely,  lest  we 
should  lose  a  bit  of  him,"  said  Olive,  rolling  the  animal  over, 
and  digging  her  fingers  affectionately  into  his  fur  and  pulling 
his  ears  and  his  paws  and  his  tail  to  illustrate  her  recital  of  his 
perfections.  "  Brown-and-white  coat — the  brown  of  an  autumn 
filbert,  with  a  collar  and  shirt-front  of  white  fur  over  skin  as 
pink  as  rosebuds — look  at  it — black  gums  and  palate,  with  the 
whitest  of  teeth,  canines,  I  believe ;  a  tail  of  russet  and  black 
and  white  that  waves  like  a  palm-tree.  Observe  the  little  black 
ring ;  we  identified  him  once  by  it,  though  we  had  never  noticed 
it  before,  had  we,  my  beauty  ?" 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  took  up  the  ball.     "  He  was  lost,  stolen,  or 


FERMENT  377 

strayed,  and  information  was  lodged  at  a  police-station  that  a 
collie  with  a  black  ring  round  his  tail  had  been  found.  We  told 
the  superintendent  ours  had  no  such  ring." 

"  The  inaccurate  observation  of  life,  you  see,  Mr.  Strang," 
broke  in  Olive,  "  which,  according  to  your  cousin,  delivers  one 
from  cynicism." 

"But  cynicism  has  something  to  do  with  dogs,  hasn't  it?" 
observed  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  smilingly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Olive.  "  We  must  get  Mr.  Strang  to  define  cyni- 
cism as  the  accurate  observation  of  dogs.  Don't  forget  to  tell 
him,  Nor,  when  you  sit  to  him  to-morrow." 

Matthew  Strang  moved  uncomfortably  on  his  seat,  raging  in- 
wardly, and  scarcely  knowing  whether  he  was  more  jealous  of 
Herbert  or  of  Roy. 

"  Well,  that  superintendent  must  have  been  a  cynic,"  Mrs. 
Wyndwood  went  on,  "  for  he  recommended  us  to  go  and  look  at 
the  dog  all  the  same.  It  was  a  wild  expedition — nearly  eleven 
o'clock  at  night — we  routed  out  a  nest  of  costers  who  lived  over 
a  stable,  and  were  invaded  by  means  of  a  ladder.  I  felt  like  a 
robber  Viking,  all  heart-beat  and  adventure.  It  was  glorious  !" 

"  Yes ;  and  Roy  came  bounding  out  and  nearly  toppled  you 
over.  And  all  the  little  costers  came  crowding  out  of  bed  in 
their  night-dresses,  and  you  gave  Mrs.  Coster  a  sovereign  for 
them  in  mistake  for  a  shilling." 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  went  into  a  fit  of  mirth  over  the  recollection. 
For  once  her  melodious  laugh  grated  upon  his  ears.  What  in 
the  world  was  there  to  laugh  about?  It  seemed  all  the  most 
puerile  nonsense.  He  could  have  cried  more  easily. 

"  Remark  his  lively  air,"  said  Olive.  "  His  intuitive  sympathy 
is  wonderful.  He  is  sad  when  you  weep,  and  merry  when  you 
frivol." 

The  painter  merely  heard  the  dog  panting  like  an  impatient 
steam-engine. 

"  He  wants  a  run,  I  think,"  he  observed,  ungraciously. 

"  Aye,  you  should  see  him  run  !"  cried  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  "  It 
makes  one  feel  young  again  to  see  him  scampering  up  hill  and 
down  dale.  Even  a  mudhill  delights  him  ;  it  reminds  him  of 
his  native  moors,  doesn't  it,  Roy,  dear?" 


3*78  THE    MASTER 

Roy  stared  at  her  with  large,  unblinking  eyes. 

"  But  we  are  not  dressed  well  enough  to  go  out  with  him 
now,"  said  Olive.  "  I  told  you  what  a  snob  he  was,  Mr.  Strang. 
Shake  paws  with  the  gentleman,  dear.  He's  smart  enough  even 
for  your  tastes.  See  how  he  likes  you,  Mr.  Strang.  If  he  didn't, 
the  skin  over  his  dear  old  nose  would  snarl  up  into  gathers  and 
puckers  and  frills.  There  !  That's  his  favorite  attitude — on  his 
hind-legs,  with  his  fore-paws  placably  on  a  beloved  lap.  Now 
he  is  happy.  How  simple  life  is  for  him  !  Lucky  dog !" 

"  Ah,  you  forget  that  he,  too,  has  his  ideal,  his  unachieved 
aspiration,"  said  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  "  The  disappointment  of  his 
life  is  that  he  can't  catch  birds.  He  snaps  at  everything  that 
soars  in  air — even  insects ;  it  exasperates  him  to  find  things 
hovering  mockingly  overhead  in  defiance  of  gravity.  He  sits 
on  his  haunches  and  wails  over  the  emptiness  of  life." 

Matthew  Strang  gave  Roy  a  kindlier  pat.  But  the  creature 
was  still  stretched  on  the  tapis  of  conversation,  and  Olive  pro- 
ceeded to  a  whimsical  account  of  the  partition  of  Roy  between 
Eleanor  and  herself,  as  joint  house-keepers.  Since  they  could 
not  bisect  the  collie,  he  belonged  to  each  on  alternate  days,  so 
that  if  he  were  lost  again,  the  onus  would  rest  on  the  mistress 
for  the  day. 

By  this  time  the  painter  could  hardly  refrain  from  kicking 
the  dog,  and  when  Mrs.  Wyndwood  added  that  Roy  was  only 
eighteen  months  old,  he  rose  to  go. 

Mrs.  Wyndwood's  expression  changed. 

"  You're  not  running  away  yet  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  must,"  he  murmured,  his  ill-humor  abating  under  the 
sweet  seriousness  of  her  face. 

"Why,  you  haven't  talked  to  us  at  all — we  want  to  hear 
more  about  technique." 

"  Technique  can't  be  talked,"  he  said,  still  surly. 

"We  haven't  any  materials  for  practical  demonstrations," 
said  Olive,  "  not  even  a  black-board." 

"  I  should  love  to  be  an  artist,"  cried  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  "  To 
feel  beauty  growing  under  one's  hand — what  a  sense  of  creative 
divinity.  I  never  sit  to  an  artist  without  thinking  what  a  privi- 
lege  is  his —  Now  what  are  you  laughing  at,  Olive  ?" 


FERMENT  379 

"  Nothing,  except  your  subtle  way  of  complimenting  your- 
self on  your  good  looks.  Now,  if  Mr.  Strang  will  be  good,  and 
waste  a  little  more  valuable  time  on  two  foolish  women,  I  will 
pay  him  a  compliment." 

He  sat  down,  his  curiosity  stimulated,  and  Olive,  producing 
a  box  of  Turkish  cigarettes,  asked  if  he  objected  to  her  smok- 
ing. Permission  being  obtained,  she  got  him  to  apply  a  light 
to  her  cigarette,  and  then  bade  him  smoke  one  himself.  He 
was  relieved  to  find  Mrs.  Wyndwood  an  abstainer. 

"  There,"  said  Olive,  puffing  out  a  thin  cloud,  "  that  is  the 
highest  compliment  I  can  pay  a  man — to  expose  myself  in  all 
my  horror.  I  smoke  neither  for  toothache  nor  neuralgia,  but 
for  sheer  viciousness.  See  the  result  of  our  visit  to  Podnieff — 
Nor  picked  up  ideals,  and  I,  smoke.  Perhaps  they  are  the 
same  thing  in  the  long-run." 

Matthew  Strang  dissented  vehemently.  "  Ideals  are  the  only 
realities." 

"  Nonsense,  they  are  the  only  things  that  change,"  retorted 
Miss  Regan.  "  The  ideal  woman  of  to-morrow  will  smoke  shag 
and  birdseye  in  long  clay  pipes." 

Eleanor  Wyndwood  came  to  his  assistance,  and  together  they 
did  battle  with  Olive,  who  took  up  the  most  perverse  Philistine 
positions  and  fought  as  if  for  life,  eluding,  shuffling,  dodging, 
equivocating,  turning,  twisting,  doubling  upon  herself  with  the 
most  daring  defiance  of  consistency,  and  the  most  bizarre  flashes 
of  wit  and  argument.  She  would  snatch  a  victory  by  specious 
logic  that  could  only  hold  for  a  moment,  and  stand  in  as  se- 
renely mocking  triumph  upon  a  crumbling  sand-heap  as  if  she 
knew  herself  upon  a  rock,  and  was  not  about  to  bound  off  to 
the  next  sand-heap  the  instant  the  tide  of  reason  swept  this  one 
hopelessly  away.  The  painter  found  a  celestial  knitting  of  soul 
in  thus  fighting  side  by  side  with  Eleanor ;  he  did  not  blench 
even  when  she  quoted  a  quatrain  from  Harold  Lavender  to  en- 
force her  point.  But  the  shades  of  earth  returned  when  she 
referred  to  Herbert  Strang. 

"  Here  is  an  example  of  a  man  who  has  absolutely  nothing  to 
gain  from  Art — who  doesn't  need  it,  who  has  means — to  whose 
sceptical  spirit  the  applause  of  the  world  is  indifferent.  And 


380  THE    MASTER 

yet  the  other  morning — when  the  sunshine  called  one  to  the 
joys  of  the  dolcefar  niente — he  sat  for  hours  toiling  painfully  at 
his  Art,  and  fretting  because  he  had  allowed  his  right  hand  to 
lose  its  cunning.  He  had  neglected  the  Ideal,  but  now  his  soul 
thirsts  for  it  again,  and  the  Ideal  is  avenged." 

Matthew  Strang  felt  a  malicious  satisfaction  in  the  thought 
that  Herbert  was  not  getting  on  very  well  with  the  portrait. 
He  had  a  sudden  curiosity  to  see  it. 

"  You  are  really  too  simple,  Nor,"  said  Olive,  plaintively. 
"  Can't  you  see  the  man's  only  trying  to  spread  out  the  sittings 
so  as  to  have  you  come  there  ?  I  dare  say  he  can  paint  as  well 
as  the  present  Mr.  Strang." 

Eleanor  flushed,  hotly.  "  Oh,  there's  no  deception  about  his 
limitations.  I  am  almost  sorry  I  consented." 

Matthew  Strang's  heart  leaped  exultant.  "  He  did  let  his 
gifts  rust,"  he  said,  magnanimously.  "  But  I  dare  say  his  old 
talent  will  come  back  after  a  little  practice.  He  had  a  fine 
color-sense  in  the  old  days." 

His  magnanimity  seemed  to  please  both  ladies,  especially 
Olive,  and  the  discussion  wound  up  suddenly  in  a  congruity  as 
unexpected  as  any  of  her  arguments. 

"  You  were  great  chums  then,  weren't  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes ;  he  was  my  cicerone  in  artistic  society.  I  might 
almost  say  in  civilized  society.  I  owe  him  a  good  deal."  He 
had  no  shame  in  hinting  at  his  humble  origin  to  these  two 
unconventional  gentlewomen. 

"  Where  is  his  studio  ?"  he  asked. 

They  told  him ;  but  Miss  Regan  seemed  to  be  suddenly  un- 
easy. A  little  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  struck  six  silvery  notes. 
He  thought  his  hostesses  might  want  to  dress  elaborately  for 
some  dinner-party  or  the  theatre,  so  he  tore  himself  away,  and, 
jumping  into  a  hansom,  drove,  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment, 
to  Herbert's  studio. 

Olive  sighed  wearily,  and  leaned  her  head  upon  her  elbows, 
which  were  planted  on  the  tea-table.  Eleanor  stooped  and  kissed 
her. 

"  Lie  down,  dear,  till  dinner.  The  heat  has  been  too  much 
for  you.  You  look  tired  to  death." 


FERMENT  381 

"  Heigho !  I  wish  I  was  really.  What's  the  use  of  living, 
Nor,  darling  ?" 

"  Oh,  life  is  so  beautiful !"  exclaimed  Eleanor,  with  shining 
eyes.  "  Think  of  Art,  think  of  Nature  !  Cheer  up,  Olive.  The 
horrid  season  will  soon  be  over,  and  then  hey  for  Devonshire !" 

"And  the  Creamery,"  added  the  girl,  in  hollow  accents. 
"  But  let's  get  away  at  once,  dear." 

"  We  must  stay  for  a  few  things  yet  —  we  promised,"  Mrs. 
Wyndwood  reminded  her  sweetly.  "  There's  the  dance  at  Lady 
Surbiton's,  and  the  reception  of — " 

Olive  interrupted  her  with  a  burst  of  laughter  that  sounded 
hysterical  to  her  friend's  anxious  ears.  "  Oh,  it's  a  mad,  bad 
world  I  But  there  are  Lady  Surbiton's  tea-gowns  !" 

"Do  lie  down,  dear." 

"  Why  aren't  there  convents  for  unbelievers,  Nor  ?  It's  an 
oversight.  I'd  get  me  into  a  nunnery,  but  I  should  be  suspected 
of  piety.  The  hospitals  are  overrun.  They  are  as  impossible 
as  Ramsgate ;  and  your  nurse  is  suspected  of  being  a  heroine. 
When  will  people  understand  that  altruism  is  a  passion,  and  that 
nobody  wants  to  be  patted  on  the  back  for  gratifying  instinct  ? 
When  I  did  that  month's  hard  in  the  Dublin  Hospital  —  but 
that  was  before  I  knew  you,  dear — half  my  family  thought  me 
mad,  and  the  other  half  a  saint.  But  I  was  only  incapable, 
Nor,  dearest.  I  couldn't  dress  ugly  wounds  as  if  I  wasn't  feel- 
ing the  pain  of  them.  No,  I'm  a  failure.  There's  nothing  for 
it  save  suicide." 

"  Or  marriage,"  said  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  softly,  laying  her  cheek 
to  her  friend's. 

Olive  moved  her  head  away,  shuddering  violently.  "  I'd  breed 
dogs  rather."  She  rose  to  her  feet  and  stretched  her  arms. 
"  They  are  happy,  aren't  you,  Roy  ?"  She  leaned  down  and 
pulled  the  collie's  jaws  apart.  "  Eating  and  sleeping,  sleeping 
arid  eating.  Why  didn't  Evolution  stop  with  you,  instead  of 
going  further  and  faring  worse  ?  But  still  there  are  those  birds, 
Roy.  And  on  our  side  there's  Art  and  there's  Nature,  Eleanor 
Wyndwood  says.  Which  Art  is  it  going  to  be,  by-the-way, 
Eleanor  Wyndwood — Poetry  or  Painting?  But  it's  two  to  one 
on  Painting." 


382  THE    MASTER 

"  You're  feverish,  darling,"  said  Eleanor,  troubled.  "  Don't 
talk  at  random." 

"  I'm  talking  straight,  dear.  Two  Strangs  to  one  Lavender. 
And  what  has  become  of  Spirit,  dearest?  That  used  to  come 
before  Art  and  Nature  !" 

"  And  who  said  it  doesn't  still  ?"  Eleanor  answered,  deprecat- 
ingly.  Then,  with  a  passionate  cry  that  set  her  beautiful  bosom 
heaving,  "  My  God,  Olive,  why  do  you  misjudge  me  ?  Can't 
you  understand  earnest  seeking?"  Tears  came  into  her  eyes 
and  trickled  down  her  face. 

Olive  kissed  them  away.  "  I'm  a  brute,  Eleanor.  The  heat's 
too  much  for  both  of  us.  Good-night !" 

"  Going  to  lie  down,  dearest  ?" 

"  No  ;  going  to  bed." 

Matthew  Strang  had  rung  several  times  before  he  could  gain 
admittance  to  his  cousin's  studio.  Herbert  appeared  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  grinning  and  yawning. 

"  Tit  for  tat,"  he  said.  "  But  I'm  awfully  glad  you  came,  old 
man.  I  was  just  dreaming  of  you.  By  Jove,  isn't  it  hot?" 

When  Herbert  said  "  old  man,"  in  his  caressing  voice,  Mat- 
thew became  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter.  It  seemed  so 
good  to  have  the  friendship  of  this  sunny  being.  He  answered 
affectionately  that  it  was  hot. 

"  You  haven't  seen  this  den  before  ?"  said  Herbert.  "  Not  so 
swell  as  yours.  But  then  I'm  hard  up." 

Matthew  smiled  incredulously,  for  the  studio  was  charming. 

"  You're  doing  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  I  hear." 

"  Who  told  you  ?" 

"  I  was  there  this  afternoon." 

"  Yes  ?     Did  you  see  her  friend  Miss  Regan  ?" 

"  She  is  always  there." 

"  I  know.     Isn't  she  a  jolly  little  girl  ?" 

"  She's  very  odd,"  said  Matthew. 

"  Odd  ?  You  Philistine  !  She's  the  most  amusing  girl  in 
London.  And  so  unaffected  !  You  can  say  anything  to  her — 
talk  about  anything.  No  beastly  prudishness.  That's  what  I 
like  in  a  woman.  The  other  day  she  was  complaining  gravely 


FERMENT  383 

that  a  woman  couldn't  be  a  burglar  because  it  would  land  her 
in  compromising  situations.  Therefore  there  never  could  be 
thorough  equality  of  the  sexes,  she  maintained.  Wasn't  it 
quaint?  She  sits  here  smoking  cigarettes  while  I  paint  that 
saintly  friend  of  hers,  and  all  the  while  rattles  on  in  the  most 
delightful  fashion.  What  a  flow  of  spirits !  And,  by  Jove ! 
the  clever,  biting  things  she  says  make  your  hair  curl.  I'm  not 
in  it  with  her,  though  I  try  hard.  I  draw  her  out  to  talk  about 
her  relations  —  it's  better  than  Thackeray.  She's  no  end  of  a 
swell,  you  know." 

"  I  know." 

"  And  disgustingly  rich.  In  short,  she'd  be  intolerable  if  she 
wasn't  herself.  What  an  enviable  lot !  All  the  B's — Beauty, 
Bullion,  Blue  Blood,  and  Brilliancy.  No  wonder  she's  light- 
hearted  !  They  say  she  had  an  eccentric  dad,  which  accounts 
for  her — a  man  who  wasted  one  of  his  fortunes  on  socialistic 
experiments !  But  she  knows  better  than  that.  Eccentricity 
in  the  parent  is  epigram  in  the  child." 

"  Which  is  an  epigram,"  said  Matthew,  laughing,  and  consid- 
erably relieved  by  this  outburst  on  his  cousin's  part.  "  But 
your  parents  were  not  eccentric." 

"Indeed?  Don't  you  see  any  eccentricity  in  the  poor  old 
governor's  trying  to  make  an  artist  out  of  me  ?" 

"  Where  is  that  portrait  ?"  asked  Matthew,  amused. 

"  Here  it  is,  you  duffer,  staring  you  in  the  face  on  the  easel 
all  the  time.  Don't  say  you  didn't  recognize  it.  Please  don't." 

"  Now  that  I  know  who  it  is,"  began  Matthew,  laughing. 

"  It  is  ghastly,  old  man,  isn't  it?  But  that  girl  distracts  me 
with  her  talk." 

"  What  made  you  attempt  it  ?"  asked  Matthew,  candidly. 

"  I  wanted  to  hear  her  talk." 

"  Whom  ?" 

"  Miss  Regan." 

Matthew  felt  a  great  wave  of  affection  for  his  cousin. 

"  But  why  don't  you  paint  her  ?" 

"  She  wouldn't  sit.  I  had  to  ask  her  friend,  knowing  she'd 
accompany  her.  But  I'm  half  sorry  I  undertook  it  now." 

"You're  certainly  not  doing  her  justice  I" 


384  THE    MASTER 

There  was  still  plenty  of  light.  He  took  up  the  brush,  and 
within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Mrs.  Wyndwood's  sweetly  spiritual 
face  gleamed  unmistakably  upon  the  canvas.  Herbert  watched 
with  admiration  those  sure,  swift  strokes,  behind  which  lay  so 
arduous  a  training,  so  irrepressible  an  instinct. 

u  You  seem  to  have  her  face  by  heart,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a 
suspicious  twinkle.  "  But  don't  let  me  interrupt  you."  And 
lighting  a  cigarette,  he  threw  himself  on  a  lounge  in  an  attitude 
that  curiously  recalled  old  times  to  the  painter. 

Matthew  Strang  painted  on  lovingly  till  he  could  no  longer 
see  his  palette,  then  Herbert  took  him  to  his  new  club — the 
Epicurean — and  gave  him  a  delightful  dinner  for  his  pains, 
and  over  the  kiimmel  and  the  coffee  borrowed  a  hundred 
pounds  from  him  so  as  not  to  sell  out  a  stock  that  was  depre- 
ciated for  the  moment. 


CHAPTER  V 

A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME 

HERBERT  STRANG  had  gone  down  to  Devonshire  to  finish  his 
portrait  of  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  whose  dress  was  still  unrecogniza- 
ble, and  who  was  so  agreeably  surprised  by  the  face  that  she 
graciously  consented  to  continue  the  sittings  at  the  "  Creamery." 
Matthew  had  arranged  to  join  him — on  the  excellent  pretext  of 
keeping  his  old  friend  company — but  before  he  left  town  for 
his  holiday,  Conscience  began  working  hard,  ominously  presage- 
ful  of  the  complications  that  might  spring  up  in  the  solitudes 
of  hills  and  waters.  The  inner  voice  whispered  strenuously  to 
him  to  profit  by  Eleanor's  absence  to  fight  down  his  impossible 
passion,  not  intensify  it  unendurably  by  following  in  her  train. 
Thoughts  of  his  wife  began  to  haunt  him  —  thoughts  which, 
while  he  was  only  an  absentee  husband,  had  been  but  pale 
shadows  of  remorse,  dogging  his  few  unoccupied  moments,  but 
which,  now  that  another  woman  had  at  last  enthroned  herself  in 
the  vacant  temple  of  his  soul,  assumed  shapes  more  solid  and 


A    CELEBRITY     AT    HOME  385 

insistent.  Home  plucked  at  his  heart,  subtly  transformed  to 
something  more  than  an  unpleasant  recollection.  In  a  spasm 
of  compunction  and  foreboding,  he  resolved  to  pay  a  visit  to 
his  wife  to  strengthen  himself  against  temptation.  The  idea, 
once  conceived,  drove  him  to  instant  execution.  Ere  the  train 
had  drawn  up  at  Camderi  Town  he  had  determined  to  elude 
temptation  altogether  by  accompanying  his  own  family  on  its 
annual  jaunt. 

The  visit  began  inauspiciously.  When  he  had  passed  the 
ivy-clad  turreted  church,  which  was  the  one  picturesque  object 
on  the  road  from  the  station,  he  was  back  in  the  old  familiar 
mesh  of  gray  streets,  any  one  like  any  other,  with  rows  of  shabby 
semi-genteel  stone-fronted  houses,  exactly  alike,  broken  at  cor- 
ners by  baker-shops  and  green-grocers.  The  August  afternoon 
was  depressed,  with  misty,  sputtering  rain.  A  few  tradesmen's 
carts  rattled  forlornly  down  the  drab  avenues  of  apathetic 
houses.  A  diminutive  barrel-organ  wheezed  a  lively  air.  Never 
had  his  street  seemed  so  hopeless.  His  ardor  grew  chill. 

He  paused  before  the  door  of  the  little  studio  where  he  had 
painted  his  first  success — "  Motherhood."  The  discolored  wood 
— set  in  the  blankness  of  a  long  brick  wall — was  scrawled  over 
with  chalk  inscriptions  and  sketches  by  the  urchins  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  house  was  round  the  corner,  and,  after  a  mel- 
ancholy moment,  he  walked  listlessly  towards  the  front  gate, 
swung  it  on  its  creaking  hinges,  and  mounted  the  chipped 
stone  steps,  washed  ashen-gray  by  the  drippings  of  rain. 

There  was  a  new  face,  heavy  and  smudged,  under  the  ill- 
adjusted  cap  of  the  maid-of-all-work  who  opened  the  door,  and 
as  he  entered  the  narrow  hall  the  sickly  smell  of  boiled  cabbage 
saluted  his  nostrils,  and  justified  him  to  himself.  But  he  was 
grimly  embarrassed  at  having  to  explain  himself  to  the  girl. 

"  Is  your  mistress  in  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir.  Will  you  wait  in  the  drorin'-room,  sir  ?  What 
name,  sir  ?" 

He  felt  mortified  and  a  whit  ashamed.  The  servant's  igno- 
rance was  an  unconscious  rebuke  that  counterbalanced  the  boiled 
cabbage. 

"  Ohf  teli  her  Matthew,"  he  said,  flushing.     "  She'll  know." 


386  THE    MASTER 

"  Yes,  sir."  And  the  girl's  cap,  stuck  on  askew  for  the  edi- 
fication of  unexpected  company,  disappeared  down  the  kitchen 
stairs. 

He  would  have  liked  to  brush  majestically  past  her,  but 
delicacy  prevented  so  abrupt  an  intrusion  upon  his  wife  in  the 
recesses  of  domesticity.  His  coming  was  already  sufficient 
surprise.  A  few  hours  ago  he  himself  had  not  foreseen  that  a 
swamping  wave  of  moral  emotion  would  sweep  him  homeward. 
He  walked  about  the  room,  morbidly  fascinated  by  the  flashy 
vases  with  the  hand-painted  shepherds,  and  wondering  what 
Rosina  would  say  if  he  made  away  with  them,  as  decency  de- 
manded. To  his  bitter  amusement  he  heard  her  voice  from  the 
passage  remonstrating  with  Billy — in  a  very  audible  whisper — 
for  the  servant's  indiscretion  in  admitting  to  the  drawing-room 
a  stranger  who  might  do  havoc  among  her  cherished  posses- 
sions. 

"Goodness  knows  what  he  may  not  pocket,"  she  grumbled, 
uneasily,  as  she  approached  the  door. 

"  It's  all  right,  Rosina,"  he  called  out,  coming  into  the  pas- 
sage. "  It's  only  me." 

"  Gracious !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Matthew  Strang,  angrily,  putting 
her  hand  to  her  heart.  "  What  a  turn  you  gave  me  !  So  you're 
the  Mr.  Matthews !  I  really  do  wish  you  wouldn't  come  sneak- 
ing in  and  prying  and  ferreting  and  frightening  a  body  out  of 
her  wits." 

She  stood  there — no  more  pleasing  than  the  vases — the  feat- 
ures, that  had  once  threatened  to  be  pretty,  sharpened  shrew- 
ishly,  though  the  figure  had  grown  plumper  except  where  the 
breasts  had  fallen.  She  did  not  look  her  youth.  The  face  was 
weary,  the  pale  blue  eyes  had  lost  their  softness.  She  had 
hastily  donned  a  cheap  black  cashmere  dress  trimmed  with  jet. 
The  painter  was  glad  the  usual  effusion  of  affection  was  want- 
ing. Notwithstanding  the  pitch  of  reaction  to  which  he  was 
wrought  up,  all  his  being  shrank  from  the  desecrating  embrace 
of  the  woman  he  did  not  love.  Nevertheless  he  was  conscious 
of  an  undercurrent  of  astonishment.  Longer  intervals  than  this 
last  had  parted  them,  yet  she  had  never  failed  to  exhibit  amor- 
ous emotion,  even  though  it  took  the  shape  of  jealous  reproach. 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  387 

This  afternoon  there  was  a  suggestion  of  resentment  in  her 
greeting — for  the  first  time  he  felt  unwelcome.  He  was  puzzled, 
albeit  relieved.  But  the  secret  of  her  mood  did  not  leak  out 
yet ;  and  in  the  meantime  there  was  Billy,  sulkily  awaiting  his 
famous  brother's  recognition.  The  young  man  looked  whiter 
and  thinner  than  on  Matthew's  last  visit  to  the  house. 

"  How  glad  he'll  be  to  come  for  a  holiday  with  me,"  thought 
the  painter,  with  a  pang  of  joyful  repentance.  "  He  oughtn't 
to  live  in  London  at  all.  We'll  all  go  down  to  some  pretty 
little  village  where  I  can  paint  if  necessary,  and  we'll  stay  till 
the  winter."  The  cripple  churlishly  took  the  hand  which  his 
brother  extended.  His  palm  burned. 

"  All  right,  Billy  ?"  questioned  Matthew,  cheerfully. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  how  I  am,"  snapped  the  younger  man. 
"  It's  months  since  you've  been  nigh  us." 

Rosina  turned  upon  Billy.  "  Don't  you  take  my  part — I  can 
speak  for  myself.  You  can't  expect  to  see  your  brother  in  the 
summer  when  all  the  fashionable  folks  come  up  to  London  to 
be  painted." 

Billy  murmured  something  inarticulate,  and  looked  doggedly 
at  Matthew,  leaning  on  his  crutch. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  ask  you  to  walk  in  and  take  a  chair,  since 
you  are  such  a  stranger,"  said  Mrs.  Matthew  Strang. 

Her  husband  meekly  retreated  into  the  drawing-room,  and  sat 
down  with  his  back  to  the  vases  that  adorned  the  mantel-piece. 
But  now  a  new  horror  caught  his  eye — nothing  less  than  a 
framed  oleograph  of  "  Motherhood,"  which  had  found  its  way 
into  the  house  in  the  days  when  its  wide  popularity  still  gave  him 
a  certain  interest  in  it  not  far  removed  from  pride.  On  his  soul, 
tensely  strung  by  Eleanor's  hand  for  the  high  notes  of  imagina- 
tion, this  cheap  domesticity  now  jarred  abominably.  The  pict- 
ure glared  at  him,  it  loomed  suddenly  symbolic.  It  was  repre- 
sentative of  Rosina  and  her  influence.  This  was  her  height  of 
poetry,  the  top  measure  of  her  soul — the  mother  carrying  the 
little  girl  who  carried  the  doll.  The  work  he  wanted  to  do — 
nay,  the  work  he  had  always  wanted  to  do  —  that  was  what 
Eleanor  stood  for — the  rare,  the  fine,  the  ethereal.  Years  of  in- 
sincere work  had  blunted  and  torpified  him — Eleanor  had  recre- 


388  THE    MASTER 

ated  his  soul,  had  given  him  freshness  of  feeling,  and  something 
of  the  early  ardor  of  aspiration. 

This  passed  through  his  mind  before  Billy  had  stumped  in 
and  taken  a  chair  opposite  him.  Rosina  remained  standing  at 
the  open  door  in  an  attitude  expressive  of  household  duties 
plucking  at  her  skirts. 

The  painter  shifted  nervously  on  his  chair.  There  was  a 
dead  silence.  It  permitted  the  tootling  of  a  tin  whistle  to  be- 
come audible,  and  gave  the  painter  the  happy  thought  of  ask- 
ing after  the  children. 

"  Clara's  at  school,"  replied  Rosina,  ungraciously.  "  She's 
the  second  girl  in  her  class,  and  could  be  top  if  she  wasn't  so 
sulky." 

"  And  Davie  ?" 

"  Can't  you  hear  for  yourself  ?  He's  only  too  quiet  as  a  rule, 
but  since  you  brought  him  that  whistle  he's  been  unbearable. 
It's  the  only  thing  that  rouses  him.  It  was  stopped  up  for  a 
fortnight,  and  he  went  about  like  a  little  ghost  till  Billy  put  it 
right.  If  he  only  had  a  notion  of  music !  Billy  tried  to  teach 
him  to  play  on  it,  but  he's  got  no  head  for  anything.  There ! 
did  you  ever  hear  such  a  squeal  ?" 

"  Oh !  he's  such  a  baby  yet,"  said  her  husband,  deprecat- 
ingly. 

Then  the  conversation  languished  again,  and  Davie's  lugubri- 
ous whistle  held  the  field. 

Billy  drew  vague  designs  on  the  carpet  with  his  crutch. 
Matthew  fidgeted  and  at  last  got  up.  He  was  meditating  how 
to  turn  the  conversation  into  a  tenderer  channel,  and  broach  the 
holiday  in  common.  Rosina  maintained  her  inconclusive  atti- 
tude in  the  doorway. 

"  You've  still  got  those  vases,"  Matthew  said.  There  being- 
no  other  thought  in  the  way,  this  thought  escaped. 

"  Yes,"  she  rejoined ;  "  but  I  don't  wonder  at  your  asking ; 
any  day  may  see  the  end  of  them,  servants  are  growing  that 
careless.  Even  as  it  is,  they  only  dust  their  outsides.  If  I 
didn't  wash  them  myself  with  tea-leaves  they'd  be  choked  up 
in  a  month." 

She  walked  to  the  mantel-piece,  and  ran  her  forefinger  down 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  389 

one  of  them.  The  finger  grew  black  as  with  anger ;  her  brow 
darkened. 

"  Why,  Amy  is  worse  than  Jane !"  she  cried,  harshly.  "  I 
won't  stand  any  more  of  her  nonsense.  Do  you  know  what  she 
did  last  week  ?"  Here  she  walked  back  to  the  door  and  shut 
it  tightly,  lest  her  words  should  reach  the  kitchen.  "  She 
washed  the  colored  things  in  the  same  water  as  the  whites. 
And  then,  after  the  wash,  I  missed  a  pair  of  Billy's  red  socks, 
and  I  hunted  high  and  low  for  them,  and  made  a  fuss.  The 
next  day  Billy  found  them  mysteriously  mixed  up  with  his  flan- 
nels. I  am  convinced  she  stole  them,  not  knowing  she  had  a 
sharp  eye  to  deal  with.  I  know  they'll  worry  me  into  the 
grave,  these  servants.  This  morning  1  particularly  said  to  her, 
'Have  you  dusted  the  drawing-room  ?'  and  she  said,  bold  as 
brass,  *  Yes,  mum.'  And  this  is  what  she  calls  dusting."  She 
held  up  her  gloomy  forefinger.  Then,  lowering  her  voice  as  if 
it  might  penetrate  even  through  the  closed  door,  she  hissed 
menacingly  at  the  brothers — "  I'll  give  her  a  piece  of  my  mind, 
that  I  will.  If  she  don't  know  when  she's  got  a  good  place, 
the  great  hulking  brute,  she  shall  pack  herself  off  this  very  after- 
noon. A  charwoman  I  give  her  every  Monday  to  help  her; 
two  shillings  I  have  to  pay  and  her  beer  money,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  work  I  do  with  my  own  hands.  Often  and  often 
I  make  the  beds  myself,  for  there  isn't  a  girl  in  creation  you 
can  trust  to  shake  out  the  bedding,  they  leave  it  all  lumpy. 
And  what  is  the  reward  for  all  my  kindness  ?  I  hate  them  all ; 
I  wish  their  necks  were  screwed." 

"  I  wish  they  were,"  said  Billy,  impatiently.  "  I'm  sick  of 
hearing  about  them." 

Rosina  turned  upon  him  again.  "  And  who  asks  you  to  stay 
here  ?  I'm  sure  I'm  sick  of  hearing  you  grumbling  and  whining 
about  the  house." 

Billy's  eyes  blazed.     A  red  spot  burned  in  each  white  cheek. 

"  Won't  you  give  me  a  cup  of  tea,  Rosina  ?"  interposed  Mat- 
thew, gently. 

"  I  dare  say  Amy  has  let  the  fire  go  out,"  she  snapped.  "  Ring 
the  bell,  you're  nearest  it." 

Matthew  rang  the  bell,  and  Amy  appeared. 


390  THE    MASTER 

"  Can  you  make  some  tea,  Amy  ?"  Rosina  inquired,  in  sweet, 
seductive  accents. 

"  Yes,  mum." 

"  My  husband  has  just  come  from  abroad,"  she  explained, 
deferentially  and  apologetically,  "  and  we  sha'n't  be  wanting  any 
more  at  tea-time.  We'll  have  tea  a  little  earlier,  and  you  can 
keep  the  water  hot  for  Miss  Clara." 

"  Yes,  mum."     Amy  disappeared. 

"  Did  you  see  the  smudge  on  her  cheek  ?"  asked  Rosina,  de- 
spairingly. "  She  can't  even  dust  her  face." 

While  Rosina  was  speaking,  her  husband  fretted  under  her 
conversation;  the  awkward  silence  that  ensued  when  she  ceased 
made  him  wish  she  would  go  on  talking. 

"  How  is  business  ?"  she  asked,  finding  him  dumb. 

He  suppressed  a  grimace.  "  Pretty  fair.  You  know  I've 
always  got  as  much  to  do  as  I  care  for." 

"  You  know  what  I've  been  thinking  ?"  Rosina  replied,  in  a 
softened  and  more  confidential  tone.  "  You  ought  to  make 
enough  to  be  able  to  retire  one  day.  Why  should  you  always 
live  away  from  me  ? — it's  as  bad  as  marrying  a  drummer.  At 
No.  49  there's  one — a  commercial  traveller  they  call  them  in 
England — and  his  wife  tells  me — it's  the  house  with  the  striped 
linen  blinds — she  doesn't  see  him  half  a  dozen  times  a  year,  and 
you're  getting  almost  as  scarce,  particularly  this  year."  She 
dropped  into  a  chair,  finally  dismissing  her  tentative  attitude. 

This  seemed  a  favorable  opening  at  last,  so  her  husband 
plunged  into  it. 

"  You  haven't  been  out  of  town  yet  ?"  he  began. 

Rosina  bounded  wrathfully  from  her  chair. 

"  There  !  I  knew  that  that  was  what  you  came  to  spy  out. 
Isn't  it  enough  that  you've  left  your  brother  here  to  be  a  spy 
on  all  my  comings  and  goings?  It's  rather  me  that  ought  to 
be  setting  a  spy  on  you,  God  knows,  what  with  your  studios 
and  your  models  and  your  fashionable,  false-hearted  women. 
Well,  there  he  is  to  witness,  anyhow.  We  have  had  our  fort- 
night at  the  sea-side.  Haven't  we,  Billy  ?" 

Billy  nodded. 

"  There !     There's  your  own  brother  to  witness.     We  went 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  391 

last  month,  and  all  to  save  you  money,  though  I  know  you 
think  I'm  making  a  stocking.  They  charged  us  so  much  last 
year  for  lodgings  at  Margate  in  August  that  I  made  up  my 
mind  I  wouldn't  be  swindled  any  more,  and  so  we  went  in 
July.  And  we  did  save — it's  no  use  my  denying  it,  with  that 
spy  of  yours  ever  at  my  tail — but  I've  had  to  spend  twice  as 
much  in  London,  with  everything  gone  up  in  price.  They're 
asking  a  shilling  a  peck  for  peas — you  can  go  round  and  ask 
Delton,  the  green-grocer,  if  you  don't  believe  me — it's  enough 
to  ruin  anybody.  And  then  there  was  the  rise  in  coals  in  the 
spring  on  account  of  the  strike — something  frightful,  and  such 
a  lot  of  slag.  And  then  poor  Clara  has  been  so  poorly ;  I  sent 
for  the  doctor  once,  and  then  he  would  keep  on  coming  to  see 
her  every  day  — there  was  no  getting  rid  of  him,  and  that 
brother  of  yours  hadn't  the  spunk  to  tell  him  straight  out  not  to 
come  any  more.  Goodness  knows  what  his  bill  has  run  up  to. 
They're  simply  blood-squeezers,  these  doctors.  So  there !  If 
you  think  you've  caught  me  out,  coming  down  on -me  like  a  de- 
tective in  my  sea-side  week,  you're  nicely  mistaken,  Mr.  Sly- 
boots. What  are  you  glaring  at  me  for  ?  Looking  for  the  brown  ? 
I'd  have  given  myself  a  coat  of  paint  if  I  had  known  you  were 
coming,  though  I  don't  pretend  to  be  so  clever  at  it  as  you,  or 
your  fine  ladies  either,  for  the  matter  of  that." 

As  Rosina  stood  over  him,  breathlessly  pouring  forth  her 
impassioned  defence  of  the  position  she  took  up  in  financial 
matters,  Matthew  Strang  felt  he  understood  why  men  sometimes 
kill  women.  He  had  long  since  given  up  attempting  to  make 
her  understand  that  her  thoughts  were  not  his  thoughts,  that, 
despite  his  hard  training  in  the  value  of  money,  details  of  ex- 
penditure had  ceased  to  occupy  his  consciousness  the  moment 
the  pinch  of  need  was  become  a  thing  of  the  past.  He  was 
inured  to  her  financial  apologetics,  her  tedious  justifications  of 
what  he  (in  his  ignorance  that  she  was  indeed  hoarding  money 
secretly,  and,  like  all  women,  saving  on  her  house-keeping)  never 
called  into  question.  He  had  steeled  himself  to  a  simulation 
of  attention  when  she  elaborately  accounted  for  every  farthing 
he  had  given  her,  and,  habituated  to  money  perpetually  passing 
from  his  hands,  he  had  never  even  reflected  that  her  style  of  liv- 


392  THE    MASTER 

ing  could  not  possibly  exhaust  the  sums  with  which  he  supple- 
mented her  own  income  ;  to  his  heedless  mind  a  growing  family 
vaguely  explained  everything.  But  to-day  the  prosaic  minutiae, 
though  painfully  familiar,  set  up  an  inward  fume  that,  inten- 
sified by  her  misconstruction  of  his  visit  and  by  her  digs  at 
Billy,  approached  insanity.  He  controlled  himself  with  a  great 
effort. 

"  It  is  you  that  are  mistaken,  Rosina,"  he  rejoined,  clinching 
his  palms.  "  I  came  merely  to  propose  that  you  should  take 
your  holiday  now.  I  thought  we  might  go  somewhere  to- 
gether." 

"  Well,  then,  you're  a  bit  too  late,"  she  replied,  with  no 
diminution  of  ill-temper.  "And  what's  come  over  you  that 
you  want  my  company  all  of  a  sudden  ?  I  thought  you  couldn't 
spare  me  a  week  ever.  I  reckon  the  truth  is  that  work's  got 
slack." 

"  Nonsense,  I  told  you  my  hands  were  full,"  he  said,  losing 
his  self-control. 

"  That's  no  reason  why  you  should  waste  money  on  me.  I 
can't  go  twice  to  the  sea-side." 

"  I  didn't  want  you  to  go  twice.  I  didn't  know  you  had 
been." 

"  I  explained  to  you  why  I  went,"  she  retorted,  hotly.  "  They 
wanted  three  guineas  last  year  for  a  sitting-room  and  two  poky 
bedrooms,  and  there  was  no  key  to  the  chiffonier,  and  I'm  sure 
the  landlady  nibbled  at  our  provisions." 

"  But  I  would  have  gladly  let  you  have  a  little  extra  if  you 
wanted  to  go  in  August." 

"  I'd  much  rather  you  spent  the  money  on  the  children.  Clara 
wears  out  her  shoes  frightfully — the  expense  turns  my  hair 

gray." 

"Then  you  wouldn't  care  to  go  with  me?" 

"No;  it  would  be  sinful  extravagance  to  go  twice.  Give  me 
the  money  if  you're  so  anxious  to  get  rid  of  it." 

"  Do  be  reasonable,  Rosina.  I  dare  say  the  children  will  enjoy 
another  week  of — ' 

"  The  children !  Much  you  care  about  the  children.  You 
haven't  asked  to  see  Davie  yet,  and  as  for  Clara — "  Rosina's 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  393 

scornful  accents  dried  up  suddenly.  Her  acute  ear  had  caught 
the  gentle  clatter  of  the  mounting  tray.  She  opened  the  door 
for  Amy.  "  You're  sure  the  water  was  boiling  ?"  she  inquired, 
pleasantly. 

"Yes,  mum." 

The  mistress  produced  a  little  key  from  her  bosom.  "  You 
will  find  a  cake  in  the  cupboard  under  the  dining-room  side- 
board. And  bring  up  the  blue-bordered  plates,  the  little  ones, 
please." 

"  Yes,  mum." 

When  the  tea  was  duly  served,  Rosina  resumed :  "And  as  for 
Clara,  I  didn't  even  write  to  you  she  had  been  ailing.  I  knew 
you  took  so  little  interest  in  the  poor  child.  She  might  die  and 
be  buried  for  all  you'd  know." 

"  I  can't  know  if  you  don't  tell  me,"  he  said,  sulkily,  stung  by 
the  germ  of  truth  in  her  words.  "  Why  don't  you  let  Davie 
come  up  to  me? — you  ought  to  have  sent  him  up  as  soon  as 
you  knew  I  was  here." 

Rosina  threw  open  the  door  again  with  a  jerk,  and  leaned  over 
the  kitchen  stairs.  "  Davie,"  she  bawled,  "  stop  that  dreadful 
noise,  and  come  up  at  once,  do  you  hear  ?  Your  father  is  dying 
to  see  you." 

The  painter  bit  his  lips.  An  irrelevant  memory  rang  in  his 
brain  with  a  Russian  accent.  "  I  do  not  like  this  word,  dying." 
The  face  of  Eleanor  Wyndwood  swam  up  on  the  cabbage-scented 
air.  The  patter  of  Davie's  feet  was  heard,  toddling  up  the 
stairs. 

The  child  stumbled  shyly  into  the  room,  the  tin  whistle 
clasped  distrustfully  to  his  breast — a  pathetic,  anaemic  little  fig- 
ure with  flaxen  curls  and  big  gray  eyes  that  easily  brimmed  over 
with  tears.  He  wore  serge  knickerbockers,  and  the  rest  of  him 
aped  the  sailor,  picturesquely  enough.  The  child  paused  near 
the  door,  clutching  his  mother's  skirt. 

"  This  way,  my  little  man,"  said  Matthew,  smiling  encourag- 
ingly from  the  green  sofa  that  sprawled  across  the  centre  of  the 
room.  "  Come  to  your  daddy." 

"Go  to  the  gentleman,  dear,"  said  Rosina,  with  withering 
sarcasm. 


394  THE    MASTER 

But  the  boy  hung  back,  clutching  her  skirt  and  his  whistle 
tighter. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Davie.  I  won't  take  your  whistle  from  you 
— don't  you  remember,  I  gave  it  you  ?"  He  held  up  a  piece  of 
Rosina's  home-made  cake.  Thus  adjured  and  enticed,  Davie 
moved  cautiously  forward,  waves  of  returning  recollection  agi- 
tating the  wee  wan  face. 

A  lump  swelled  in  the  father's  throat  as  he  surveyed  the  weak- 
ling. The  poor  child  suddenly  appeared  to  him  the  scape-goat 
for  an  unholy  union.  Life  had  taught  him  from  what  fount  of 
sacred  love  children  should  spring. 

While  he  was  hoisting  the  child  on  his  knee,  responsive  to  that 
strong  appeal  of  feeble  creatures,  but  with  no  specific  stirrings 
of  paternity,  Davie  wistfully  held  up  his  disengaged  hand  for 
the  cake,  which  he  grabbed  as  soon  as  it  came  within  range  of 
his  little  arm.  His  mouth  was  too  preoccupied  with  cake  to  re- 
turn his  father's  kiss,  to  which  he  submitted  passively. 

The  painter  laid  his  hand  tenderly  on  the  flaxen  hair. 

"  Did  you  enjoy  yourself  at  Margate,  Davie  ?" 

Rosina  uttered  an  exclamation  of  disgust. 

"  Well,  I  never  !  Who'll  you  be  cross-examining  next  ?  Per- 
haps you  think  Billy  and  me  are  in  a  conspiracy  ;  that  I've  gained 
over  your  spy.  I'd  better  go  down-stairs  so  as  not  to  influence 
the  child's  evidence." 

And  turning  on  her  heel,  she  marched  haughtily  kitchen  wards. 

Matthew  sighed  wearily. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  her,  Billy  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Don't  ask  me.  She's  been  as  cross  as  two  sticks  ever  since 
they've  had  new  curtains  at  No.  53  opposite.  And  the  weather 
has  been  so  muggy.  And  your  coming  has  upset  her." 

"  But  she  seems  to  have  turned  against  you,  too.  You  used 
to  get  on  so  well  together." 

"  She's  so  difficult  to  live  with,"  replied  Billy,  fretfully.  "  So 
quarrelsome  and  discontented." 

"  What  is  she  discontented  about  ?"  Matthew  asked,  uneasily. 
"  She's  got  plenty  of  money." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  the  money,"  replied  Billy,  morosely.  "  She's 
lucky,  is  Rosina,  She  has  money  of  her  own.  Do  you  know, 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  395 

her  little  American  property  has  gone  up  a  good  deal  lately. 
Her  income  is  nearer  nine  hundred  than  eight  hundred  dollars." 

"  Indeed  ?"  murmured  his  brother,  dimly  interested. 

"  Yes,  old  Coble  wrote  to  her,  telling  her  things  were  looking 
up,  and  he  was  right.  No,  it  isn't  Rosina  that's  got  cause  of 
complaint  about  money  matters.  She  isn't  like  me — she  isn't 
dependent  on  you  for  every  farthing."  His  words  rang  bitterly, 
resentfully. 

"  But  surely  you  don't  mind  taking  money  from  me,  Billy  ?" 
lie  said,  with  infinite  gentleness. 

"  And  why  shouldn't  I  mind  taking  money  from  a  stranger  ?" 

"  A  stranger !" 

"Yes,  you're  naught  else.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  of 
your  goings-on,  your  gaddings  about  to  parties  and  banquets? 
Because  Rosina  don't  read  the  papers,  you  mustn't  think  I'm 
ignorant,  too.  I've  got  a  heap  of  things  about  you  in  my  study, 
all  cut  out  and  pasted  in  books.  I  don't  tell  Rosina,  because  it 
would  only  make  her  discontented,  but  it  riles  me,  I  tell  you 
straight,  to  be  left  here,  leading  this  wretched,  lonesome  life. 
Why  can't  I  live  with  you  ?" 

"  You  could  live  with  me  to-morrow  if  you  liked,  Billy.  But 
don't  you  see  you'd  be  just  as  wretched  and  lonesome  ?  All  day 
I  should  be  at  work,  and  when  I  went  out  you  couldn't  accom- 
pany me.  I  can't  foist  my  relatives  on  the  people  who  invite 
me  out.  They  only  want  me — and  that  only  as  a  curiosity,"  he 
added,  with  a  bitter  perception  of  how  extrinsic  he  really  was  to 
the  charmed  circles  of  Society ;  of  how  little  affinity  there  was 
between  him  and  the  bulk  of  those  who  gushed  over  his  Art. 

"  But  if  you  would  only  help  me  to  get  my  work  published, 
they'd  make  a  fuss  over  me,  too.  But  you've  never  moved  your 
little  finger  to  help  me." 

"  I  got  Wilson  and  Butler  to  read  some  of  your  MSS.  I 
couldn't  do  any  more.  It  isn't  my  fault  if  they  don't  think 
your  work  good  enough." 

"  Nonsense !  I  don't  believe  they  ever  saw  it.  You  only 
said  they  did  to  pacify  me." 

"  Oh,  Billy !"  cried  Matthew,  in  shocked  reproach. 

"  Well,  even  if  they  did,"  said  Billy,  tetchily,  "  they're  not 


396  THE    MASTER 

infallible.  They're  prejudiced.  They  think  two  brothers  can't 
both  be  clever.  I'm  sure  my  stories  are  as  good  as  anything 
that  appears  in  their  magazines,  and  a  damned  sight  better. 
But  there  are  any  amount  of  other  editors  that  you  come  across, 
for  I've  seen  your  name  printed  with  theirs  in  the  lists  of  guests 
at  public  dinners.  But  you  go  your  own  way,  and  never  spare 
a  thought  for  me,  eating  my  heart  out  here.  I  come  in  handy 
to  keep  your  wife  company  and  to  prevent  her  feeling  desert- 
ed, and  you  think  that's  about  all  I'm  good  for."  His  white 
face  was  worked  up  to  a  flush  of  anger.  He  had  the  common 
delusion  of  the  unsuccessful,  that  the  successful  in  any  depart- 
ment can  pull  the  ropes  in  every  other.  Nor  could  he  under- 
stand that  Matthew  disliked  approaching  people,  and  people 
disliked  being  approached. 

"  Whatever  you're  good  for  you'll  be,"  said  Matthew,  sooth- 
ingly. "  If  your  work  is  really  first-class — it  will  come  to  the 
front  in  the  long-run."  He  shrank  from  adding  that  he  did 
not  think  it  even  second-class ;  it  was  no  use  making  the  boy 
more  miserable. 

"  Yes,  but  I  can't  run — I'm  a  cripple  !"  Billy  burst  forth,  pas- 
sionately. "  Who  knows  whether  I  shall  live  to  see  the  end  of 
the  long-run  ?  Perhaps  they'll  give  me  a  stone  when  I'm  dead 
— but  what's  the  good  of  that  to  me  ?  You  have  everything 
that  makes  life  worth  living :  you  have  love — you  have  a  wife 
whenever  you  choose  to  come ;  you  have  money,  and  heaps  of 
it,  all  earned  by  the  sweat  of  your  own  brow  ;  you  have  fame — 
your  name  is  in  all  the  papers  ;  you  have  fashionable  folk  court- 
ing and  caressing  you.  I  dare  say  some  fine-scented  lady  fixed 
that  rose  so  beautifully  in  your  button-hole ;  I  can  smell  her 
white  fingers.  It's  all  roses  and  sunshine  for  you.  But  you 
take  jolly  good  care  to  keep  'em  to  yourself." 

The  imbittered  words  carried  no  sting  to  the  painter's  breast. 
But  he  was  sick  at  heart  as  he  replied,  gently  : 

"  You  don't  really  mean  what  you're  saying,  Billy.  You 
know  I've  offered  to  defray  the  cost  of  publication  of  *  By 
Field  and  Flood '  if  you'd  only  let  me." 

"Yes,  but  that's  making  me  more  of  a  drag  on  yon.  Be- 
sides, you  told  me  it's  only  the  rotten  houses  that  publish  nov- 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  397 

els  at  the  author's  expense,  and  that  the  critics  look  askance  on 
them.  But  if  I  could  earn  enough  on  my  short  stories  to  pay 
for  a  book,  I'd  chance  that."  His  voice  took  on  a  maundering, 
pitiful  intonation.  "  I'm  sure  I've  worked  hard  enough,  toiling 
at  my  desk  and  denying  myself  every  pleasure  in  life  ;  you  can't 
say  I  don't  keep  sober  now.  I  never  go  beyond  one  glass  of  ale 
at  meal-times." 

"  Yes,  you're  very  good,  Billy.  You've  been  good  for  a  long 
time." 

"  Good  !"  echoed  Billy,  in  the  same  testy,  lachrymose  accents. 
"  What's  the  good  of  being  good  ?  I  wish  I  was  dead.  Why 
don't  you  let  me  drink  my  fits  back  again  ?"  His  breast  heaved, 
he  seemed  on  the  point  of  sobs.  The  painter  sat  in  mute  misery. 

A  blood-curdling  shriek  from  the  whistle  destroyed  the  intol- 
erable situation.  Davie,  having  finished  munching  his  cake,  had 
his  mouth  free  again  for  musical  operations. 

"  Put  your  fingers  over  the  holes,  Davie,"  said  his  father, 
"  then  it  '11  play  nicer." 

"  It's  no  use,"  put  in  Billy,  moodily.    "  I  tried  to  teach  him." 

"  Look,  I'll  move  my  fingers,  Davie,  and  you  shall  blow,  and 
we'll  play  a  pretty  tune  together.  No,  don't  be  alarmed.  I'm 
not  taking  the  whistle  away,  only  putting  my  fingers  on  it.  See, 
you  shall  hold  the  end  fast  in  your  mouth." 

The  child  blew  spasmodically.  His  father  mechanically 
played  the  first  tune  that  came  into  his  fingers.  A  gleam  of 
excited  interest  leaped  into  the  child's  eyes  as  he  heard  the 
notes  varying  mysteriously  in  a  rough  jingle.  But  the  painter 
broke  off  suddenly.  He  realized  that  he  was  playing  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home."  It  was  too  ghastly. 

"  More,  more  !"  panted  Davie,  imperatively. 

Matthew  Strang  obediently  started  "  Yankee  Doodle,"  and 
had  to  grant  two  encores  before  the  juvenile  tyrant  was  robbed 
of  breath  and  desire. 

"  What's  your  name,  my  little  man  ?"  he  asked,  thoughtlessly, 
to  make  conversation. 

"  Davie." 

"Davie  what?" 

"  Davie  Thrang." 


398  THE    MASTER 

"  Ah  !  and  how  old  are  you  ?" 

"  I'se  nearly  four,"  replied  Davie,  adding  in  a  burst  of  new 
confidence,  "  when  I  come  to  my  fourf  birfday,  mummy  says 
she'll  gi'  me  a  penny  every  week  all  to  mythelf." 

"  Really  ?"  said  the  painter,  with  a  sad  smile.  "  A  whole 
penny?" 

Davie  shook  his  head  in  vehement  affirmation  :  "  Yeth,  and  I 
am  thinkin'  what  I  shall  buy  mummy  wi'  my  firth  penny — ap- 
pleth  or  a  flower." 

A  thrill  shot  down  the  painter's  spine.  The  poor,  sickly  infant 
appeared  suddenly  lovable  to  him  ;  for  the  first  time,  too,  he  re- 
alized the  child  as  an  independent  entity,  with  thoughts  of  its 
own  at  work  in  the  queer  little  brain.  Whatever  the  quality  of 
this  little  brain,  Davie's  heart  was  sound  enough.  And  this 
heart  was  evidently  entirely  given  to  his  mother.  The  momentary 
prick  of  irrational  jealousy  that  the  discovery  caused  the  father 
was  forgotten  in  softer  feelings.  His  conception  of  the  mother 
rose  with  his  conception  of  the  child.  She  was  the  other  side 
of  the  relation,  and  there  must  be  something  beautiful  in  her  to 
correspond  with  the  beauty  of  her  child's  sentiment.  The  oleo- 
graph of  "Motherhood"  caught  his  eye  again;  he  saw  how  in- 
sincerely he  had  painted  it,  from  a  mere  intellectual  idea,  unfelt, 
unrealized ;  but  he  saw  also  the  secret  of  its  popularity,  each  ob- 
server contributing  the  emotion  the  painter  had  not  felt.  His 
eye  dwelt  upon  it  more  tolerantly. 

"  Kiss  me,  Davie,"  he  said,  "  and  you  shall  have  a  penny  now 
to  buy  mummy  a  flower." 

Davie  readily  put  up  his  lips  to  clinch  the  bargain,  and  his 
father  gave  him  the  coin.  The  boy  regarded  it  wistfully. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?"  Billy  put  in,  more  amiably. 

"  Fank  you,"  said  Davie. 

"  Thank  you,  da — "  prompted  Billy. 

"  Daddy,"  wound  up  Davie,  triumphantly.  "  There  ain't  no 
flower-womans  now,"  he  added,  dubiously.  "  They  was  a  lot  at 
Margit." 

"  I'll  be  a  flower-woman,  Davie,"  said  his  father,  cheerily. 
"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  this  beautiful  flower — this  rose  in 
my  button-hole — for  your  penny,  to  give  to  mummy  ?" 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  399 

"  Yeth — I  wants  it,"  said  Davie,  clutching  greedily  for  it. 

"  Gently,  or  all  the  lovely  pink  leaves  will  fall  out.  And  you 
must  give  me  your  penny,  you  know." 

Davie,  with  a  perplexed  air,  vaguely  conscious  of  commercial 
transactions  too  complicated  for  his  intellect,  hesitatingly  reten- 
dered  the  penny,  and,  receiving  the  rose,  was  set  down  on  the 
carpet.  He  ran  eagerly  to  the  door,  blowing  one  disconsolate, 
irrelevant  blast  on  the  whistle,  and  then  the  brothers  heard  him 
tumble  down  the  oilcloth-covered  stairs  with  three  thuds,  fol- 
lowed by  shrill  ululations.  They  ran  to  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
but  Rosina  had  already  rushed  forth  to  pick  up  her  child,  and 
her  soothing  prattle,  varied  by  scolding  for  his  careless  hurry, 
made  a  duet  with  his  howls. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  flower  from  ?  You've  crumpled  it 
all  to  pieces."  She  extracted  it  from  the  fingers  that  had  closed 
upon  it  tenaciously  when  the  fall  commenced. 

"  From  the  gen'leman.  Him  what  I  calls  daddy.  It's  for  you, 
mummy." 

"  Tell  him  he  can  keep  it !" 

Davie's  howls  recommenced. 

Matthew  Strang's  heart  contracted.  He  went  half-way  down 
the  stairs  to  where  Rosina  ministered  to  her  bruised  offspring. 

"  I  didn't  send  you  the  flower,  Rosina,"  he  said,  gently.  "  It's 
a  gift  from  the  child." 

"  Oh,  is  it  ?  Then  he's  better-hearted  than  his  father,  that's 
all  I  can  say.  Thank  you,  my  poor  darling,  thank  you.  Dry 
your  little  eyes,  and  mummy  shall  take  you  out  to  see  all  the 
pretty  shops." 

"Won't  you  come  up -stairs  and  finish  your  tea,  Rosina?" 
Matthew  pleaded. 

"  I'm  busy,"  she  said,  tartly.  "  I'm  giving  Clara  her  tea. 
She's  just  come  home  from  school." 

"  Let  her  bring  her  tea  up-stairs ;  then  she  can  talk  to  me." 

"  I'll  tell  her  you're  here.  I  dare  say  she'll  remember  you — 
she  generally  gets  something  out  of  you." 

He  bit  his  lips  to  keep  back  angry  speech,  and  remounted  to 
the  drawing-room.  Clara  came  close  upon  his  footsteps,  and  ran 
to  offer  her  lips.  She  was  a  tall  child  of  seven,  with  a  low  fore- 


400  THE    MASTER 

head,  dark  hair  and  eyebrows,  a  heavy  jaw,  and  a  high  color — 
handsome  after  a  rather  Gallic  fashion.  The  painter  always  trod 
giugerly  with  her,  knowing  she  had  her  grandmother's  temper. 
Rosina,  lacking  the  clew,  was  less  delicate  with  the  girl,  whose 
sullen  phases  irritated  her  immeasurably.  This  afternoon  Clara 
was  conciliated  by  sixpence,  and  chatted  amicably  with  her 
father  about  her  lessons.  Presently  her  mother  came  up  too, 
with  Davie  in  her  train,  and  there  was  the  outward  spectacle  of 
a  happy  family  group  united  at  tea.  The  painter  was  embold- 
ened to  strengthen  an  idea  that  was  gradually  forming  in  his 
mind  by  expressing  it. 

"  Billy  feels  very  lonely  down  in  this  part  of  the  town,"  he 
began,  timidly. 

"  And  what  must  I  feel  ?"  Rosina  snapped. 

"  Then  why  can't  we  all  live  together,  Rosina  ?"  he  said,  more 
boldly. 

"  Are  you  beginning  that  again  ?"  she  asked,  sharply.  "  You 
won't  come  and  live  here,  will  you  ?" 

"  You  know  it  is  impossible." 

"And  you  know  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  move  to  your 
neighborhood.  I've  told  you  a  thousand  times  you  can't  afford 
one  of  those  big  houses — it  would  be  ruinous ;  you'd  have  to 
keep  a  staff  of  servants  to  match,  and  things  would  be  coming 
to  the  house  at  extravagant  prices  from  aristocratic  trades- 
people, whereas  here  I  go  out  and  do  my  bit  of  marketing,  and 
pick  up  a  bargain  here  and  a  bargain  there ;  I've  found  out  a 
place  in  Holloway  where  I  get  the  best  meat  a  penny  a  pound 
cheaper  than  anywhere  in  Camden  Town,  and  it  only  means  a 
penny  tram  there  and  back.  You  don't  know  how  much  I  save 
you  a  year  when  you  suspect  me  of  making  a  stocking  for  ray- 
self  out  of  my  sea-side  allowance.  And  even  if  you  can  afford 
such  a  house,  rather  give  me  the  money  and  let  me  put  it  by 
for  the  children." 

He  made  a  despairing  gesture.  "  We  could  get  a  small 
house,"  he  said.  "  I  could  work  harder  for  a  year  or  two. 
Perhaps  I  could  get  a  few  more  rooms  added  to  my  studio. 
There's  a  piece  of  ground  I  use  at  the  back  for  open-air 
studies." 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  403 

"  And  what  would  be  the  use  of  my  living  with  you  ?"  in- 
quired Rosina,  brutally.  "You  don't  want  me  any  more.  I 
dare  say  you  could  come  home  at  night  now  if  you  wanted  to." 

"  Hush  !"  said  her  husband,  flushing.  "  Clara,  my  dear,  take 
Davie  out  and  buy  him  some  candy.  This  penny  is  really  his." 

"  Yes,  father."     And  the  joyous  children  disappeared. 

"  Poor  orphans  !"  said  Rosina.  "  Perhaps  it's  just  as  well 
there  won't  be  any  more  of  them." 

Matthew  Strang  was  startled,  yet  not  quite  surprised  by  the 
revelation  of  his  wife's  mood.  She  had  never  before  so  openly 
resented  or  dissented  from  the  situation  that  had  gradually 
grown  up — one  of  those  strange,  complex,  undefined  situations 
of  which  life  is  so  full,  and  which  are  only  able  to  exist  by 
virtue  of  not  being  put  into  words. 

He  stirred  the  dregs  of  his  tea  with  his  spoon,  painfully  em- 
barrassed. 

"  I  shall  talk  to  an  architect  I  know,"  he  said  at  last,  ignoring 
her  allusion.  "  The  cost  mightn't  be  much,  and  it  needn't  be 
all  paid  off  at  once.  Besides,"  he  added,  with  forced  playful- 
ness, "  that  extra  hundred  dollars  a  year  of  yours  must  be  used 
up  somehow." 

Rosina  turned  eyes  of  flame  upon  the  unhappy  Billy.  "  I 
knew  it !"  she  said,  cuttingly.  "  I  knew  you  were  here  to  spy 
upon  me.  So  you  have  sneaked  about  that,  have  you  ?" 

Matthew  lost  his  temper  at  last. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Rosina  !"  he  said,  roughly.  "  Do  you  think 
I  care  a  pin  whether  you  spend  a  wretched  hundred  dollars 
more  or  less  ?" 

"  No ;  I  dare  say  you  would  rather  have  a  wife  that  would 
bring  you  to  the  workhouse.  They  had  the  bailiffs  in  at  No. 
36A  only  yesterday.  There's  a  wife  there  that  would  just  suit 
you.  The  husband's  something  in  your  way  of  business,  an 
author  or  a  poet,  and  she's  a  tall,  stuck-up  creature  who  sits  at 
the  window  in  strange  long  gowns  without  stays,  and  reads 
books  to  him  and  never  goes  to  church.  My !  You  should 
see  her  out  marketing — they  swindle  her  at  every  turn ;  she 
doesn't  know  a  horse  from  a  ham  sandwich.  I  don't  wonder 
they've  come  to  a  bad  end — you  should  see  the  dust  on  her 

26 


-i  THE    MASTER 

40f 

Venetian  blinds.  I  prophesied  the  crash  last  winter — ask  Billy 
if  I  didn't.  The}7  took  in  their  coals  by  the  hundred-weight. 
Don't  you  fancy  I  don't  know  that's  the  sort  of  woman  you're 
hankering  after.  Ever  since  my  Davie  was  born,  and  you  got 
mixed  up  with  those  sort  of  creatures,  you've  been  sorry  you 
married  me.  Oh,  it's  no  use  denying  it.  You  want  a  fine  lady 
that  would  scorn  to  soil  her  fingers  with  housework,  and  ex- 
pect you  to  cover  'em  with  diamonds,  a  creature  that  would 
faint  at  the  sight  of  a  black-beetle.  But  you  were  glad  enough 
to  marry  me  once  upon  a  time,  when  you  hadn't  a  dollar  to  your 
name.  They  say  you're  a  fine  painter,  and  who  made  you  a 
fine  painter  ?  Who  took  you  abroad,  and  supported  you  while 
you  were  studying?  They  think  you're  a  fine  gentleman,  and 
who  made  you  a  fine  gentleman  ?  Oh  yes,  I  know  I'm  not  one 
of  your  fine  ladies — but  if  I  had  been,  where  would  you  have 
been  now?  In  the  bankruptcy  court — perhaps  back  again  in 
the  jail  from  which  I  dragged  you." 

Matthew  crimsoned  furiously.     Billy  leaped  in  his  chair. 

"  You  fish-wife  !  How  dare  you  say  such  things  to  my  broth- 
er?" he  cried,  choking  with  rage.  "Matt  in  jail,  indeed  !" 

"  Let  her  talk,"  said  Matthew,  wearily.  "  I  see  it  was  a  mis- 
take to  have  come  here  at  all." 

Rosina  cast  a  glance  of  venomous  triumph  at  her  drooping 
husband.  The  jail  was  a  chance  shot.  In  long,  lonely,  agoniz- 
ing watches  the  resentful  suspicion  had  germinated  and  grown. 

"It's  true," she  said,  defiantly.     "Let  him  deny  it." 

"  Why  did  you  take  a  husband  from  jail  ?"  retorted  the  paint- 
er, with  a  flash  of  fire. 

"  I  didn't  know  it ;  I  was  tricked  and  bamboozled,  and  I  had 
a  heart  in  my  breast  then,  not  a  stone.  If  I  had  been  a  fine 
lady  I  might  have  been  more  particular  to  examine  your  pedi- 
gree." 

A  sense  of  guilt  damped  the  man's  fire.  The  jail  episode 
was  not  the  only  thing  he  had  concealed. 

"  If  you're  sorry  you  married  me  we  can  separate,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"  Separate — aren't  we  separated  enough  ?  Do  you  mean  you'd 
like  a  divorce  ?  Oh  no,  not  for  this  child.  So  that  you  may 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  403 

marry  one  of  your  fine  ladies.  Perhaps  make  an  honest  woman 
of  her?" 

"  Rosina !"  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  thundering.  The  image 
of  Eleanor  Wyndwood  swept  involuntarily  before  him,  and  he 
felt  that  this  coarse-tongued  woman  had  profaned  it. 

She  flinched  before  the  cry,  but  parodied  it  daringly. 

"  Matthew  !" 

He  flung  from  the  room.     Billy  prodded  frantically  after  him. 

"  Don't  go,  Matt !   Don't  go  !     You'll  never  come  back  again." 

The  piteous  appeal  sounded  like  a  prophecy.  He  paused  in 
the  hall,  irresolute. 

Rosina  laughed  hysterically.  "  You  had  better  go  with  him, 
Billy,  if  you're  so  frightened.  And  good  riddance  to  the  pair 
of  you.  I've  got  my  bread  and  butter,  thank  God.  My  chil- 
dren sha'n't  starve,  if  their  father  does  desert  them." 

"  Let  me  go,  Billy,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  shaking  off  the  cripple's 
clutch.  "  I  can't  breathe  here.  Come  with  me — write  to  me — 
do  what  you  like."  He  opened  the  hall-door  and  closed  it  be- 
hind him,  and  dashed  against  his  children  coming  back  through 
the  gate,  with  their  mouths  full  of  almond-rock.  Clara  caught 
at  the  skirts  of  his  coat. 

"  Don't  go  away  again,  father,"  she  mumbled,  peevishly. 
"  Mother  cries  for  you  in  the  night,  and  I  can't  get  to  sleep." 

He  swayed  as  if  struck  by  a  bullet.  Then  he  took  the  little 
girl's  sticky  hand,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  led  back  through 
the  area  door.  As  Clara  unlatched  it  he  heard  her  mother  sob- 
bing hysterically  above.  The  servant's  foolish  face  peeped, 
white  and  scared,  from  the  kitchen  door,  and  made  his  own 
scarlet  with  shame. 

"Your  mistress  is  ill,"  he  muttered,  and  ran  hastily  up-stairs. 

Rosina  detected  his  footstep,  and  the  sobs  changed  back  to 
frenzied  laughter.  Then  she  controlled  both  by  sheer  pride,  all 
the  steel  in  her  springing  back  unsnapped  from  its  bend,  and 
she  opposed  a  mocking  smile  to  his  discomfited  concern.  The 
strength  that  had  kept  her  silent  for  years  was  now  summoned 
to  undo  the  effects  of  speech. 

"  What  have  you  forgotten  ?"  she  asked,  tauntingly.  "  Have 
you  come  back  for  your  good-bye  kiss  or  your  umbrella  or 


404  THE    MASTER 

what  ?  Kisses,  they're  off ;  we're  an  old  married  couple  now,  but 
I  don't  want  to  stick  to  your  umbrella.  It  might  be  a  present 
from  somebody  nice.  Is  there  an  umbrella  about,  Billy  ?  No  ? 
Dear  me !  Then  it  must  be  that  rose.  Ah,  but  Davie  gave  me 
that."  She  called  down  the  stairs.  "  Wasn't  it  you  that  gave 
me  the  rose,  Davie  ?  Yes,  and  I'm  not  going  to  give  it  back. 
Don't  be  afraid,  dear.  Mummy  won't  give  away  her  darling's 
present.  Did  'um  bruise  himself  to  give  it  to  me?  Poor 
Davie  !" 

There  was  a  hectic  flush  on  her  cheek ;  her  voice  rang  false. 
Matthew  was  afraid. 

"  Well,  good-bye,"  she  jerked,  after  a  pause.  "  What  are  you 
waiting  for  ?" 

"  Don't  go  away,"  whispered  Billy,  nervously,  shattered  by 
the  scenes  of  the  afternoon.  "  Come  to  the  study ;  she'll  cool 
down  soon." 

The  suggestion  commended  itself  to  Matthew.  It  seemed 
cowardly  to  leave  this  hysteric  couple  to  themselves.  He  de- 
scended the  kitchen  stairs  once  more,  and  passed  along  the  cor- 
ridor that  led  to  his  old  studio,  now  turned  into  a  workroom  for 
Billy,  and  fitted  up  with  bookshelves,  whose  contents  hid  the 
whitewashed  walls.  A  writing-table,  littered  with  papers,  occu- 
pied the  centre  of  the  floor,  and  piles  of  manuscript  showed 
within  a  little  angle  cupboard,  whose  door  swung  open.  There 
were  several  reproductions  of  his  brother's  works  roughly  stuck 
on  the  wall — one  a  valuable  engraving. signed  by  the  artist;  and 
the  "  Triumph  of  Bacchus  "  was  already  represented  in  two 
shapes — once  by  the  half -page  cut  out  of  "  The  Season's  Pict- 
ures," and  again  by  a  full-page  photograph  of  it  from  the 
Graphic. 

"  It's  a  shame  they  don't  make  you  an  A.R.  A.,  Matt,"  said 
Billy.  "  Your  pictures  get  more  advertisement  for  the  Academy 
than  almost  anybody  else's." 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  talk  of  that  now,"  said  the  painter, 
brokenly.  His  eye  noted  curiously  that  ancient  engraving  of 
'•'  The  Angelus,"  miraculously  preserved  to  be  one  of  Billy's 
treasures,  by  the  world's  refusal  to  give  more  than  eighteen- 
pence  for  it. 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  405 

It  was  a  poor  representative  of  the  original,  but  the  other 
ornaments  of  the  study  seemed  to  him  tawdry  in  comparison. 
His  taste  had  changed  :  the  picture  attracted  him  now.  With- 
out analyzing — the  turmoil  of  his  mind  did  not  permit  that — 
he  had  an  impression  of  sincerity,  of  sympathetic  vision,  of 
work  done  inevitably ;  not,  like  his  own  work,  from  cleverness. 
Despair  of  his  life  and  his  Art  mingled  in  one  dark  paroxysm 
as  he  dropped  upon  a  chair  and  laid  his  head  upon  the  writing- 
table. 

"  Don't,  you  may  get  your  hair  sticky,"  said  Billy.  "  I  don't 
think  it's  quite  dry — I  was  just  pasting  it  in  before  you  came." 

He  withdrew  the  album  from  under  his  brother's  head — the 
pious  compilation  with  which  he  fed  at  once  his  jealousy  and 
his  pride.  "  I  suppose  you  saw  that  little  sketch  of  your  life  in 
1  Our  Celebrities  '  this  month?" 

Matthew  did  not  answer. 

"  It's  not  quite  accurate,  you  know,"  went  on  Billy.  "  It  says 
you're  a  bachelor,  and  that  you  were  born  in  Canada,  and  so  on. 
But  that  doesn't  matter.  There  are  always  mistakes,  and,  of 
course,  nobody  knows  about  Rosina.  Listen  !  <  The  eldest  child 
of  a  prosperous  Canadian  farmer,  he  gave  early  evidence  of  tal- 
ent, and  was  sent  to  England  to  study  art,  and  soon  became  the 
favorite  pupil  at  Grainger's  well-known  Art  School  in  central 
London,  where  he  studied  under  Tarmigan,  a  frigid  artist  who  at 
one  time  enjoyed  considerable  repute.  Later,  Mr.  Strang  pur- 
sued his  studies  in  Paris  and  Rome,  and,  returning  to  London 
with  ripened  art,  sought  and  obtained  the  suffrages  of  the 
Academicians  with  his  picture  entitled  "  Motherhood,"  since 
so  familiar  to  the  public  in  countless  reproductions,  and  the 
herald  of  a  career  of  uniform  success.  Next  year  his  classic 
picture — ' " 

"  My  God  !  Do  you  want  to  drive  me  mad  ?"  roared  the  sick 
lion,  raising  his  head.  "  I  know  all  about  it." 

"  You  needn't  bully  my  head  off,"  said  Billy,  pettishly.  "  I 
asked  you  if  you'd  seen  it." 

"  It's  copied  from  People  of  the  Time"  groaned  the  painter. 
He  clinched  his  fists  in  a  blind  rage  against  the  universe.  This 
was  what  the  public  read  and  believed  about  his  life — his  life, 


406  THE    MASTER 

with  its  slow,  sick  struggles,  its  inner  and  outer  discords,  its 
poignant  pathos.  And  this  was  what  he  read  and  believed  about 
other  men.  Good  God  !  What  was  behind  their  lives,  the  lives 
of  his  fellows,  whose  smooth  histories  he  read  in  biographical 
summaries  ?  The  possibilities  of  the  human  tragedy  frightened 
him.  Then  the  realities  of  the  human  farce  seized  him,  and  he 
terrified  Billy  by  a  long  peal  of  sardonic  laughter. 

The  laughter  ceased  suddenly.  "  Go  and  see  how  she  is,"  he 
commanded  the  shuddering  Billy,  and  the  poor  cripple,  now  less 
frightened  of  Rosina  than  of  his  brother,  sped  away  as  fast  as 
his  crutch  could  carry  him. 

Left  alone,  the  painter  looked  abstractedly  at  "The  Angelus," 
and  it  drifted  his  thoughts  back  to  the  time  when  he  had  tried 
to  sell  it  for  bread.  How  happy  were  those  times  of  youthful 
aspiration,  when  all  things  were  new  and  all  things  were  true, 
and  hunger  itself  was  but  a  sauce  to  eke  out  the  scanty  meal ! 
What  was  starvation  to  this  terrible  hunger  for  happiness,  what 
the  want  of  money  to  this  want  of  something  to  live  for  ?  Ah, 
money  was  nothing  ;  money  troubles  were  mental  figments.  It 
was  the  cark  of  life  that  killed — money  or  no  money.  Oh,  to  be 
young  and  free  again  ;  free  to  be  a  slave  to  Art !  How  hollow 
it  all  was — this  fame,  this  running  about,  this  Society  that  wel- 
comed him,  as  he  had  truly  told  Billy,  like  a  kind  of  monstrosity  ! 
He  had  been  happier  when  he  had  toiled  in  this  little  white- 
washed studio,  even  after  his  mistaken  marriage.  The  lines  of 
the  poet  in  whom  he  had  read  most  of  late  fell  from  his  lips 
like  an  original  personal  cry  : 

"  Oh,  I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  this  sordid  life  of  care." 

And  thus  Billy  found  him,  his  head  on  the  desk,  his  shoul- 
ders heaving  convulsively. 

"  Matt !"  he  cried,  timidly. 

"  Well !"  in  muffled  accents. 

"  She's  gone  to  her  room  and  locked  herself  in.  She  says 
you're  not  to  come  near  her  any  more  ever." 

A  long  silence. 

"  But  I  dare  say  it  '11  blow  over,  Matt.     This  is  not  the  first 


A    CELEBRITY    AT    HOME  407 

time  she's  been  taken  like  that,  though  you've  not  been  here  to 
bear  it." 

A  longer  silence. 

Billy  cudgelled  his  brain  to  rouse  his  brother. 

"  I  saw  Ruth  Hailey  a  month  ago,"  he  said  at  last.  This 
time  he  succeeded  in  evoking  an  indifferent  monosyllable. 

«  Yes  ?" 

"  Yes.  She  called  here  to  see  us — she  was  in  London.  She 
had  got  our  address  from  Abner  Preep  before  leaving  America. 
I  gave  her  the  address  of  your  studio,  but  she  said  she  was  un- 
certain whether  she  would  have  time  to  look  you  up.  She  seems 
to  be  secretary  to  Mrs.  Verder,  the  Woman's  Rights  woman, 
goes  about  with  her  everywhere.  Linda  Verder's  lectures — you 
remember  them  at  the  St.  James's  Hall  in  July.  She's  in  Scot- 
land now,  and  later  on,  Ruth  writes  to  me  (for  I  asked  her  to 
correspond  with  me  a  little)  they're  going  to  Paris  for  a  course, 
under  the  patronage  of  the  American  Embassy.  They'll  stay 
in  Paris  some  time,  as  Linda  Verder  wants  a  rest  badly,  and 
has  a  lot  of  American  friends  there.  Then  they  go  to  Australia 
and  New  Zealand.  Curious,  isn't  it  ?" 

«  How  did  she  look  ?" 

"  Ruth?  Oh,  she's  gone  off  a  good  deal,  to  my  thinking.  She 
must  be  getting  pretty  old  now — about  as  old  as  you,  which  is 
young  for  a  man,  but  old  for  a  woman.  But  her  eyes  are  fine, 
and  there's  a  sweetness  —  I  can't  describe  it.  She  says  she 
used  to  teach  Sunday-school  in  the  States,  and,  though  she  en- 
joys travelling  about,  regrets  having  had  to  give  up  her  class. 
Fancy !  She  used  to  be  such  a  smart  girl,  too,  and  I  should 
have  thought  the  deacon  had  disgusted  her  with  religion.  You 
know  she  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  him." 

"  Is  he  still  alive  ?" 

"  Oh,  he's  just  as  spry  as  ever.  His  father's  curled  up  his 
toes,  though.  Old  Hey  had  the  old  man  from  Digby  to  live 
with  him,  and  they  used  to  go  at  it  hammer  and  tongs." 

Billy  could  extract  no  further  answer.  But  he  would  not  let 
his  brother  go  that  night,  insisting  he  must  sleep  with  him  as 
usual  in  the  spare  bed  in  his  bedroom. 

About  nine  o'clock  Rosina  sent  a  specially  nice  supper  for 


408  THE    MASTER 

two  down  to  the  study.  Matthew  roused  himself  to  eat  a  morsel 
to  keep  Billy  company,  and  then,  before  going  to  his  sleepless 
couch  in  Billy's  room,  bethought  himself  of  whiling  away  the 
time  by  answering  some  letters  which  had  been  bulking  his 
inner  coat-pocket  for  days.  One  of  these  was  a  reverential  re- 
quest for  an  autograph,  addressed  from  a  fine-sounding  country 
house,  and  backed  by  the  compulsive  seduction  of  a  stamped 
envelope. 

His  emotions  were  exhausted.  He  wrote  apathetically,  "  Yours 
truly,  Matthew  Strang,"  writing  very  near  the  top  of  the  note-pa- 
per for  fear  of  fraud,  and  cutting  off  the  Camden  Town  heading. 

The  celebrity  was  at  home  for  once. 


CHAPTER  VI 
A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL 

THE  old-fashioned  yellow  coach,  top-heavy  with  pyramidal 
luggage,  rattled  along  the  Devonshire  coast,  striking  its  apex 
against  over-arching  boughs,  and  Matthew  Strang  sat  on  the 
box-seat,  forgetting  London  in  the  prospect  of  Eleanor  Wynd- 
wood  and  in  the  view  of  white  and  red  houses  scattered  like 
wild-flowers  about  a  steep  green  hill  overhanging  the  curve  of 
a  lovely  bay. 

For  Rosina  had  continued  obdurate  and  invisible ;  she  had 
sent  up  breakfast  from  the  kitchen  without  appearing,  and  with 
an  irritating  air  of  cooking  for  a  gentleman-boarder,  and  he, 
fretful  and  anguished  after  a  wretched  wakeful  night,  had  fled, 
snarling  even  at  Billy,  who  would  have  stayed  him  further. 
The  remembrance  of  her  cantankerousness  and  of  his  own  ill- 
humor  had  accompanied  him  all  the  way  to  Devonshire,  but  the 
sight  of  the  sea — rolling  vast  and  green  and  sun-dimpled — 
the  wrinkled  unaging  sea,  had  calmed  him.  His  burdens  fell 
from  him.  The  last  vapors  of  London,  the  torpid  miasma  of 
the  packed  streets,  the  cabbage  odors  of  Camden  Town,  were 
blown  afar ;  he  drew  deep  breaths  of  the  delicious  air. 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  409 

How  lucky  it  was  Rosina  had  shied  at  the  suggestion  which 
he  had  thrown  out  on  the  reckless  impulse  of  a  desperate  mo- 
ment!  How  could  they  possibly  live  together  any  more?  To 
draw  the  same  atmosphere  with  her  was  stifling ;  and  at  the 
thought  his  deep  inspirations  took  on  a  new  voluptuousness  of 
freedom  regained.  Decidedly  he  had  not  counted  the  cost 
when  the  quixotic  proposal  sprang  to  his  lips.  For  that  atmos- 
phere meant  death  to  his  soul  —  nothing  less ;  death  to  all  his 
new  stirrings  and  yearnings — asphyxiation  to  his  Art.  Ah  !  the 
good  salt  air,  let  it  blow  on  his  free  forehead,  let  it  play  among 
his  early-graying  locks.  Let  it  whisper  the  brave  dreams  of 
youth  till  the  nimble  blood  tingles  and  the  eyes  are  wet  with 
tears.  Let  him  feel  the  freshness  of  morning,  though  the  sun 
is  hastening  westward,  and  the  best  of  the  day  is  spent.  The 
coachman  blows  his  horn,  and  the  hills  are  filled  with  the  echoes 
of  romance.  Away  with  the  clogging  mists  and  the  moral  fogs 
of  the  town,  away  with  the  moody  vision  of  a  narrow-souled 
virago  in  a  gray  house  in  a  drab  labyrinth,  and  ho !  for  the  en- 
chanted cliffs  and  waters,  where  loveliness  broods  like  light  over 
earth  and  sea,  and  a  spirit  that  is  half  a  woman  and  half  the 
soul  of  all  beauty  waits  with  swelling  bosom  and  kindling  eyes. 
Oh,  the  bonny  horses,  the  spanking  quartette,  how  they  sweep 
round  the  curves  and  dash  down  the  dales,  and  how  gallantly 
the  ruddy-faced  driver  holds  them  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand ! 
What  delightful  villages,  primitive  as  the  rough  stone  of  which 
they  are  built,  what  quaint  old  hostels  and  archaic  streets 
steeped  in  the  mingled  scent  of  the  sea  and  the  moors !  Here 
be  old-world  orchards,  here  be  cosey  cottages  and  sweet  homely 
gardens,  gay  with  nasturtiums  and  hollyhocks  and  scarlet-run- 
ners, with  roses  and  pansies. 

Ta-ra !  Ta-ra-ra-ra  !  Ta-ra  !  The  driver  airily  salutes  the  after- 
noon. Over  the  ferny  walls  of  the  Devonshire  lanes,  the  out- 
side passengers  behold  the  red  crags  perching  picturesquely  on 
the  sea-front  like  petrified  monsters  of  an  earlier  era,  and  the 
trail  of  redder  gold  quivering  across  the  great  water ;  the  wind 
rises  and  flecks  the  shimmering  green  as  with  a  flock  of  skim- 
ming sea-birds.  Oh,  the  beauty  of  the  good  round  earth,  the 
beauty  forgotten  and  blotted  out  in  the  reeking  back  streets  of 


410  THE    MASTER 

great  cities !  Oh,  gracious  privilege  of  the  artist,  to  seize  a 
moment  of  the  flowing  loveliness  of  all  things ;  to  pass  it 
through  the  alembic  of  his  soul,  and  give  it  back  transfigured 
and  immortal. 

"  To  feel  Beauty  growing  under  one's  hand."  The  words 
were  Eleanor's  —  they  chimed  celestially  in  his  ears,  not  as 
words,  but  as  her  words,  stored  up  as  in  a  phonograph  with 
every  dainty  intonation,  but  with  their  music  sweetened  rather 
than  deadened.  All  she  had  ever  said  to  him  he  could  recall  as 
from  a  box  of  heavenly  airs.  Every  syllable  had  the  golden 
cadence  of  poesie.  To  love  her  was  to  be  young  again,  fit  for 
every  high  emprise,  sensitive  to  every  tremor  of  fantasy  and 
romance. 

"  Stiff  collar-work  that,  sir." 

The  driver's  tongue  was  clattering  tirelessly — of  his  horses, 
which,  more  sensible  than  men,  wouldn't  touch  a  drop  more  than 
was  good  for  them ;  of  his  life  on  the  box  from  boyhood,  his 
easy-going  content,  his  pioneer  daughter,  the  first  in  those  parts 
to  wear  spectacles ;  his  pleasure  in  seeing  gentlefolk  come  down 
to  circulate  the  money,  his  scorn  of  chapel  -  goers ;  but  Mat- 
thew Strang's  private  phonograph  was  performing  with  equal 
indefatigability,  and  his  spirit  leaped  incessantly  from  one  to 
the  other,  touched  to  a  large  geniality  for  horn-blowing  hu- 
manity. 

The  sun  was  sinking  royally  in  the  sea,  like  a  Viking  in  his 
burning  vessel,  when  the  coach  obligingly  drew  up  with  a  flour- 
ish of  the  horn  and  a  scattering  of  chickens  and  a  barking  of 
dogs  at  the  farm  where  Herbert  had  his  headquarters.  He  was 
disappointed  not  to  find  Herbert  there  to  receive  him,  as  he 
had  telegraphed  his  advent ;  but  just  as  he  was  comfortably  in- 
stalled and  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether  he  should  start 
dining  alone,  that  ever-young  gentleman  galloped  up,  flushed 
with  health  and  sun  and  exercise,  and,  leaping  from  his  horse, 
gave  Matthew  such  hearty  greeting  that  the  painter  had  a  grate- 
ful sense  of  being  welcomed  to  an  ancient  seignorial  home  by  a 
bluff  and  hospitable  squire. 

"  I've  been  working  at  the  portrait,"  Herbert  explained,  as- 
cending to  his  room  with  his  hand  affectionately  on  the  shoulder 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  411 

of  Matthew,  who  was  thus  forced  to  remount  the  stairs.  "  Of 
course  I  keep  my  painting  kit  at  their  place.  And  a  jolly  old 
place  it  is,  with  the  sea  cleaning  the  doorsteps,  or  pretty  nearly. 
They're  beastly  comfortable,  with  their  London  servants  and 
carriages,  and  they've  a  motherly  old  person  who  seems  a  combi- 
nation of  cook  and  chaperon,  and  turns  out  delicious  dishes,  and 
they've  taken  on  a  native  girl  to  help  them — a  sweet  simple 
creature  with  cheeks  like  strawberries  and  cream.  Do  you  re- 
member the  lady  who  said  strawberries  and  cream  needed  only 
to  be  forbidden  to  be  an  ecstasy?  These  are  forbidden.  Oh, 
don't  look  glum,  I  haven't  indulged.  Forbidden  fruit  is  out  of 
season.  I'm  tired  of  it.  It's  generally  canned.  And  I  have 
had  too  much  of  the  foreign  brands — ugh  !  I  can  see  the  litter 
of  broken  tins.  I'm  developing  a  healthy  taste  for  the  fresh- 
growing  article,  without  any  prohibitive  tariff." 

Matthew  turned  to  grasp  his  friend's  hand  silently,  as  though 
sealing  some  compact.  He  felt  it  was  Eleanor  whose  magnetism 
had  uplifted  Herbert  to  that  reverence  for  womanhood  he  him- 
self had  always  entertained.  It  was  impossible  to  live  under 
her  spell  and  remain  coarse.  And,  paradoxically  enough,  he 
was  glad  Herbert  was  living  on  a  higher  plane — it  strengthened 
him  in  his  own  purely  spiritual  devotion  to  the  beautiful  friend 
of  his  soul.  How  stupid  to  have  hesitated ;  how  commonplace 
and  ignoble  to  have  gone  to  see  Rosina  for  fear  of  Eleanor's  in- 
fluence upon  him.  Like  the  old  Roman,  he  had  lost  a  day.  And 
he  had  uselessly  harrowed  his  soul  to  boot. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  not  altogether  uselessly,  he  reflected  con- 
solingly. The  visit  had  laid  the  ghost  of  remorse  ;  the  full  day- 
light had  been  turned  upon  the  situation ;  he  had  seen  beyond 
reach  of  further  doubt  that  he  was  not  to  blame  for  it ;  that  he 
was  the  victim  of  the  blind  tragedy  of  circumstance.  True,  the 
full  daylight  had  also  revealed  that  Rosina  was  taking  the  situ- 
ation far  more  tragically  than  he  had  ever  allowed  himself  to 
suspect ;  it  was  pitiful,  but  it  could  not  be  helped.  His  own 
mother  had  fared  far  worse,  her  living  death  had  taught  him 
resentful  resignation  to  the  workings  of  fate.  No,  Rosina  must 
be  put  on  one  side.  He  had  lost  happiness ;  his  Art  at  least 
must  be  saved. 


412  THE    MASTER 

Waiting  for  Herbert  to  change  his  clothes,  he  looked  out  of 
the  ivy-wreathed,  diamond  -  paned  casement,  and  saw  a  lonely 
white  wraith  of  a  moon  glimmering  in  the  great  spaces  over  the 
great  lonely  deep,  and  heard  the  moan  of  the  waves  under  the 
wind's  lash,  and  watched  the  sunset  dying  in  pale  greens  and 
pinks  and  saffrons  ;  and  so,  in  an  exalted  mood,  went  down  to 
dinner. 

It  was  getting  towards  nine  o'clock  when  the  cousins  lit  their 
cigars  and  strolled  along  the  cliffs,  their  feet  taking  them  west- 
wards, where  phosphorescent  streaks  of  light  green  lingered  in 
the  sky,  sending  out  thinner  lucent  shoots  to  join  the  eastern 


"  I'll  show  you  the  house  —  it's  not  more  than  a  mile,"  Herbert 
volunteered. 

"  We  can't  call  to-night,"  said  Matthew. 

"  What  !  Not  with  a  madcap  like  Olive  ?  You  don't  mind 
my  calling  her  Olive,  do  you,  old  man  ?" 

"  No,"  laughed  Matthew. 

"  Well,  then  !  If  I  may  call  her  Olive,  why  mayn't  I  call  on 
her  in  the  evening?  But  that's  an  argument  rather  in  Olive's 
vein,  though  it  appears  to  puzzle  you  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  But  you 
mustn't  bring  your  London  etiquette  down  here  with  you,  my 
boy,"  he  went  on  in  a  harangue  tempered  by  puffs  —  "  you'd 
better  send  it  back  by  the  carrier  to-morrow  if  you  packed  it  in 
your  luggage  by  mistake.  We're  in  another  world,  and  in  an 
earlier  century.  What  a  superficial  view  to  think  contempora- 
ries live  in  the  same  century  !  These  people  —  as  yet  unsophis- 
ticated by  the  tourist  —  are  living  in  the  seventeenth  century 
A.D.  at  the  latest  ;  they'd  burn  Olive  for  a  witch  if  they  knew 
her  as  I  do,  the  droll  elf,  with  her  masculine  brain  and  her 
tricksy  femininity.  I  think  I've  lived  in  every  place  and  time 
under  the  sun.  I've  been  with  fourteenth-century  brigands  and 
sixth-century  monks.  And  in  Jerusalem  with  the  Jews  I  was 
baek  in  the  B.C.  ages.  I  really  think  all  the  centuries  live  side 
by  side.  There  must  have  been  A.D.  people  in  the  B.C.  times, 
just  as  there  are  B.C.  people  living  in  A.D.  times.  Fancy  think- 
ing these  bucolics  an  evolutionary  advance  on  Pericles  and 
Horace.  Evolution  must  move  like  those  waves  down  below, 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  413 

sending  scouts  out  here  and  there  far  in  advance  of  the  general 
march  of  the  waters,  whenever  there's  a  hollow  curve  in  the 
coast.  I'm  a  twenty-fifth  century  man  myself,  which  makes  the 
nineteenth  call  me  godless  and  immoral.  But  what  were  we 
talking  about?" 

"  Goodness  knows.     Oh,  I  know — " 

"  I'm  aware  you  are  goodness  incarnate,"  interpolated  Her- 
bert. 

"  I  was  saying  we  couldn't  call  on  Mrs.  Wyndwood  to-night." 

"  Ah,  but  why  shouldn't  Mrs.  Wyndwood  want  a  stroll  after 
dinner  as  much  as  we  ?  I  told  her  of  your  wire.  What  more 
natural  than  that  they  should  stroll  eastward?"  And  Herbert 
smiled  mysteriously,  as  one  with  experience.  "  I  told  you  we 
made  our  own  etiquette — laws  are  for  the  benefit  of  the  com- 
munity. We  are  the  community,  we  four,  the  only  civilized 
beings  in  a  loutish  world.  We  began  as  a  triumvirate,  but  your 
coming  has  changed  the  form  of  government.  You  are  the 
fourth  party.  We  are  now — what  shall  I  say  ? — a  constitu- 
tional quartette." 

As  Herbert  rattled  on,  Matthew  felt  more  and  more  the  fas- 
cination of  his  gay  cousin,  whose  white  teeth  flashed  as  face- 
tiously as  in  the  days  of  yore,  and  whose  lissome  figure  was  a 
continuous  pleasure  to  the  artistic  eye.  Gratitude  mingled  with 
his  admiration  ;  but  for  Herbert's  ingenuity  he  would  never 
have  been  a  citizen  of  the  earthly  paradise  that  was  opening 
before  him.  The  smoke  of  his  cigar  rose  like  incense  on  the 
solemn  air,  upon  which  the  sound  of  the  wind  and  the  sea  broke 
like  a  hush.  Under  foot  were  gorse  and  bracken,  mixed  with 
sparse  sprouts  of  grass;  overhead  a  rich  yellow  half-moon? 
partly  hidden  by  scowling  clouds,  but  throwing  a  band  of  pale 
gold,  that  changed  with  the  deepening  dusk  to  rippling  silver, 
across  the  sombre  bay,  in  whose  distant  cliffs  the  lights  of  vague 
scattered  villages  twinkled  mysteriously,  suggesting  romantic 
windows  of  illumined  hollow  chambers  in  the  steep  rock.  And 
presently  white  figures  were  seen  advancing  slowly  to  meet 
them,  pausing  each  instant  as  if  to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  the 
night. 

"  Ah,  there  they  are  !"  cried  Herbert, 


414  THE    MASTER 

"No, there  are  three  of  them,"  said  Matthew,  in  disappointed 
tones. 

"  That's  the  maid,  carrying  a  reserve  of  wraps,  you  duffer  ! 
Don't  throw  away  your  cigar.  There's  Olive  herself  with  a 
cigarette,  if  my  eyes  do  not  deceive  me." 

But  Matthew  Strang's  cigar  went  out  ere  the  two  parties — 
sauntering  more  slowly  than  before  they  had  become  uncon- 
scious of  each  other — were  startled  to  find  themselves  face  to 
face.  His  heart  was  beating  furiously  as  if  he  were  really 
startled  by  the  apparition  of  a  queenly  figure  and  a  lovely 
flushed  face  on  the  background  of  the  night.  A  smile  danced 
in  the  eyes  and  parted  the  red  lips  with  an  expression  of  more 
eager  welcome  than  had  ever  been  accorded  him  in  town  ;  and 
there  was  a  more  intimate  pressure  in  the  clasp  of  the  warm 
hand,  subtly  heralding  a  new  phase  in  their  friendship,  in  this 
disappearance  of  the  conventional  stage  properties  of  the  fash- 
ionable human  scene,  in  this  isolation  amid  the  primitiveness 
of  nature,  and  of  a  humanity  simpler  than  their  own ;  while 
Miss  Regan's  cigarette  and  her  frank  laugh  and  hand-shake 
indicated  less  subtly,  but  no  less  pleasantly,  the  commence- 
ment of  a  semi-Bohemian  artistic  period  which  loomed  more 
agreeably  to  Matthew  than  any  of  the  periods  Herbert  had 
boasted  of  living  in. 

"  Welcome  to  the  Creamery,"  said  Olive,  "  or  rather  to  the 
Ice-Creamery,  as  we've  had  to  call  it  lately." 

"Then  why  don't  you  put  on  your  wraps?"  said  Matthew, 
anxiously. 

"  Oh,  it's  comparatively  tropical  to-night,  and  we  had  to  give 
Primitiva  a  pretext  for  accompanying  us.  This  is  Primitiva 
(nee  Rose)  the  ex-post."  The  pretty  lass  made  a  courtesy.  "  She 
was  the  post,  you  know,  when  we  first  came.  She  used  to  bring 
letters  from  the  post-office,  which  is  near  you,  and  our  first 
acquaintance  with  the  post  was  to  find  it  in  tears  because  it  had 
lost  a  letter  of  ours.  She  had  dropped  it  en  route" 

"Was  it  an  important  letter?"  asked  Matthew. 

"That  is  very  nearly  a  bull,  Mr.  Strang,"  replied  Olive. 
"  However,  as  the  letter  was  picked  up  by  a  coast-guard,  1  am 
able  to  tell  you  it  wasn't  of  the  slightest  importance — merely  a 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  415 

request  from  Mr.  Harold  Lavender  to  be  allowed  to  dedicate 
his  next  book  of  poems  to  Nor.  Still  it  might  have  been  im- 
portant; it  might  have  contained  a  P.O.M." 

"  Do  you  mean  a  poem  or  a  post-office  order  ?"  laughed  Mrs, 
Wyndwood,  turning  a  flippant  face  towards  Matthew's,  over 
which  a  cloud  had  come  like  that  now  entirely  over  the 
moon. 

"  Neither,"  said  Olive,  gravely  ;  "  a  P.O.M.,  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage. But  wasn't  it  odd  to  see  the  post  crying  ?  I  fell  in  love 
with  her  at  once.  I  saw  that  such  a  quaint  creature  would  do 
more  good  to  me  than  to  Her  Majesty's  service,  and  so,  hey, 
presto !  she  was  whisked  from  the  post-office  and  changed  into 
a  tire-woman." 

"  And,  oh !  what  a  refreshing  contrast  with  the  London  ser- 
vant," added  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  "  Primitiva  is  really  a  servant, 
not  a  critic  on  the  hearth." 

"  Yes,"  said  Olive,  "  she  believes  that  all  London  ladies 
smoke,  and  considers  Nor  eccentric  for  not  indulging.  And 
whatever  I  tell  her  is  gospel ;  she  thinks  I'm  like  George  Wash- 
ington— invariably  truthful." 

"Then  she  thinks  you  eccentric,  too,"  said  Herbert,  smiling 
back. 

Olive's  eyes  danced ;  her  lips  quivered  trying  to  keep  back 
the  smile  of  response. 

"  Save  your  cynicism  for  town,  sir,"  she  said.  "  Primitiva 
doesn't  think  anything  of  the  kind.  The  world  is  not  a  whited 
sepulchre  to  her.  It  is  lucky  I  removed  her  from  the  sphere  of 
your  blighting  influence." 

"Yes,"  grumbled  Herbert.  "She's  our  farmer's  daughter, 
Matt.  And  she  might  have  hovered  about  our  dinner-table." 

"  I  couldn't  leave  Marguerite  in  the  way  of  Faust,"  said  Olive, 
plumply. 

Matthew  Strang  winced ;  Miss  Regan's  plain  speaking  grated 
upon  him,  and  he  saw  that  Mrs.  Wyndwood  had  lowered  her 
eyes  in  like  annoyance  and  had  commenced  to  walk  homewards. 
And  he  resented  this  preoccupation  with  Primitiva ;  he  feared 
she  was  going  to  play  the  part  of  the  dog,  Roy.  Herbert 
hummed  an  operatic  bar  or  two  and  broke  off  laughing :  "  I 


416  THE    MASTER 

wish  I  had  Faust's  voice.  A  lovely  tenor  voice  was  apparently 
among  the  profits  of  his  bargain  with  the  devil." 

Miss  Regan  laughed  merrily.  "  Are  you  going  back,  Nor  ?" 
she  called  out. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wyndwood.    "  We  must  say  good-night." 

"  Oh,  we  must  see  you  home,"  protested  Matthew,  as  he 
moved  to  her  side. 

"  There's  really  no  need,"  she  returned.  "  We  sha'n't  meet 
anybody." 

"  But  it's  so  dark,"  said  Matthew,  for  the  moon  still  dallied 
behind  its  cloud-rack,  and  threw  only  a  faint  wavering  circle 
of  light  on  the  weird  water,  though  the  stars  were  now  clear 
enough. 

"  Then,  come  along !"  cried  Olive,  bounding  forwards,  from 
Herbert's  side,  rather  to  his  disgust.  "  Run  straight  home, 
Primitiva."  And,  waving  her  cigarette-tip  in  the  darkness,  she 
disappeared  in  the  earth  like  a  red  witch. 

Herbert  dashed  after  her  down  the  cliff  descent.  The  exhil- 
aration of  their  spirits  caught  Eleanor.  She  was  swallowed 
down  abruptly.  Matthew  followed  more  cautiously,  wondering. 
And  then  began  a  mad,  unforgetable,  breakneck,  joyous  scram- 
ble in  the  darkness  down  the  steepest  and  craggiest  of  roughly 
worn  paths,  diversified  by  great  sheer  gaps  without  foothold  for 
a  goat,  down  which  they  had  to  drop.  At  first  Matthew  tried 
to  steady  and  help  himself  by  clutching  at  the  vegetation  arid 
bushes  through  which  the  path  broke,  but  it  was  all  black- 
berry-bushes and  prickly  gorse,  and  his  involuntary  interjec- 
tions were  answered  by  peals  of  mocking  laughter  from  the  in- 
visible pioneer  below. 

"  How  do  you  like  seeing  us  home  ?"  she  called  up. 

But  Matthew  was  rapt  far  beyond  the  sting  of  taunts  and 
blackberry -bushes.  Mrs.  Wyndwood  was  only  a  few  inches 
ahead  of  him ;  every  moment  she  turned  to  cheer  him  on,  and 
her  face  was  close  to  his,  and  the  divine  darkness  was  filled 
with  light  and  perfume.  Twice  or  thrice  in  this  topsy-turvy 
harum-scarum  descent  she  gave  him  a  helping  hand,  as  one 
familiar  with  the  ground,  and  he  took  it  with  no  sense  of  un- 
manliness.  "  Be  careful  here,"  she  said  once,  "  or  the  brambles 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  417 

will  scratch  your-  face,"  and  she  looked  tip  adorably  from  her 
insecure  perch  below,  holding  the  prickly  net-work  apart  with 
her  upper  arm  as  he  slid  cautiously  towards  her,  blissfully  con- 
scious that  this  sharing  of  common — if  petty — peril  was  bring- 
ing them  together  beyond  the  reach  of  ceremonial  coldness  for 
evermore.  Sometimes  the  gray  sea  showed  below  through  the 
interstices  on  the  left,  and  its  dull  boom  mingled  with  the 
gentle  swish  of  the  wind  and  the  gurgle  of  a  little  waterfall. 
The  last  twenty  feet  were  the  worst,  and  they  were  aggravated 
by  the  banter  of  the  couple  safely  below.  Herbert  had  never 
caught  up  with  Olive,  who  had  skeltered  down  like  a  wild-cat, 
leaving  a  trail  of  gay  ejaculations ;  but  Mrs.  Wyndwood  herself 
had  to  be  helped  in  the  precipitous  windings  of  the  base,  with 
its  tiny  niches  of  crumbling  stone  at  long  intervals,  and  now 
in  sweet  revenge  Matthew  held  her  hand  to  steady  her  from 
above,  while  below  Herbert  waited  with  open  arms  for  her  final 
jump.  An  odd  recollection  of  his  climbing  down  the  steeple  in 
Economy  flashed  through  his  brain,  as  he  himself  half  slipped, 
half  leaped  to  the  ground,  hot  and  red  and  breathless  ;  and  grati- 
tude for  the  miraculous  metamorphosis  in  his  fortunes  added  to 
the  tenderness  of  his  mood.  How  good  it  was  to  be  alive — 
there  in  the  brave  night,  moneyed  and  famous  and  still  young, 
glowing  with  physical  well-being — amid  a  joyous  human  com- 
pany, with  a  delightful  friend  and  cousin,  and  two  brilliant  and 
beautiful  ladies,  both  members  of  that  fashionable  world  which 
had  once  filled  him  with  envious  bitterness,  and  one  of  them  a 
woman  whose  presence  made  everything  magical.  Rosina  was 
very  shadowy  now. 

They  seemed  in  a  great  closed  circle,  walled  by  cliffs,  with  a 
roof  fretted  by  stars.  Two  glooming  pools  made  dark  patches 
in  the  lighter  soil,  and  they  heard  the  stir  of  fish. 

"  A  deserted  stone  quarry,"  Olive  explained. 

"  There  are  carp  in  the  pools,"  said  Herbert. 

"  We  live  outside,"  said  Mrs.  Wyndwood. 

"  It's  nearer  over  the  cliff  and  more  ladylike,"  added  Olive. 

"  It  was  hardly  fair  to  Mr.  Matthew  Strang,  though,"  Eleanor 
remarked,  smiling.  "  We've  all  learned  the  way  in  the  daylight. 
When  you  see  it  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Strang,  you'll  find  it  some- 

27 


418  THE    MASTER 

times  within  a  few  inches  of  the  sheer  precipice,  and  if  you  had 
caught  hold  of  the  bushes  to  stay  your  fall  you  would  have 
dropped  them  like  a  hornet's  nest.  We  ought  to  have  warned 
him — in  the  dark,  too." 

"  If  we  had  warned  him  he  would  have  fallen,"  laughed  Olive, 
gayly.  "Anybody  could  walk  a  four-inch  plank  over  a  preci- 
pice if  he  thought  it  was  on  the  ground.  Ignorance  is  salvation. 
But  you  will  have  to  come  in,  Strangs,  and  brush  yourselves  be- 
fore you  go.  What  a  nuisance  your  both  having  the  same 
name.  When  I  insult  Mr.  Herbert  I  shall  excite  the  animosity 
of  Mr.  Matthew,  and  vice  versa.  I  really  think,  Nor,  we  shall 
have  to  call  them  by  their  Christian  names." 

"  Only  when  they're  together,"  said  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  smiling. 

"  We  must  always  stick  together,  Matt,"  cried  Herbert,  with 
jocose  enthusiasm.  "  Your  hand,  Matt." 

"  We  might  call  one  the  Painter,"  began  Mrs.  Wyndwood, 
"  and  the  other—" 

"  No,  that's  ungrateful,"  Olive  remonstrated,  "  after  tlje  beau- 
tiful success  Mr.  Herbert  has  made  of  you." 

"  I  meant  Mr.  Herbert,"  replied  Eleanor,  roguishly,  and  for 
once  Olive  had  no  retort  ready. 

"  No,  even  taking  the  portrait  into  account,  Matt's  the  Paint- 
er," said  Herbert,  placing  his  hand  lovingly  on  the  shoulder  of 
his  friend,  who  thrilled  with  a  sense  of  his  cousin's  large-heart- 
edness.  "Call  me  the  Playwright." 

"  You  are  both  Painters,"  Miss  Regan  persisted.  "  But  the 
problem  is  solved  —  one  is  Mr.  Herbert  and  the  other  Mr. 
Matthew."  She  took  Eleanor's  arm  and  led  the  way  to  the 
house. 

"  Since  when  are  you  a  playwright,  Mr.  Herbert  ?"  asked 
Matthew,  as  they  fell  a  little  into  the  rear. 

"  None  of  your  sarcasm,  you  beggar.  I've  always  been  a 
playwright.  Don't  you  remember  my  doing  a  burlesque  for  the 
Academy  students  ?  I'm  writing  a  comedy  in  the  evenings — the 
lessee  of  the  Folly  is  a  friend  of  mine  —  I  must  make  some 
money  now — there's  that  hundred  pounds  I  owe  you — and  I 
know  I'm  not  going  to  make  it  by  painting." 

"  But  surely  you  will  let  me  know  if  you  want  anything," 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  419 

said  Matthew,  with  genuine  concern,  for  there  seemed  some- 
thing immoral  in  the  idea  of  Herbert  feeling  the  pinch  of  need, 
to  say  nothing  of  his  shock  at  finding  that  his  cousin  had  run 
through  all  that  money.  Herbert  had,  indeed,  several  times 
hinted  at  his  inipecuniosity,  but  Matthew  had  never  taken  him 
seriously. 

Herbert  shook  his  head.  "  I  know  you're  a  brick,  old  chap, 
but  a  hundred  pounds  is  as  much  as  I  care  to  owe  any  one 
man." 

"  But  you  don't  consider  me  any  one  man." 

"  Ah !  it's  awfully  good  of  you  to  remember  that  I  did  as 
much  for  you — comparatively  speaking  —  in  your  tenpenny 
times,  but  still  it  isn't  quite  agreeable  to  find  one's  bread  on  the 
waters  after  many  days.  I  never  did  like  soaked  bread,  even 
in  milk.  The  most  I  could  do  would  be  to  let  you  settle  up 
every  week  with  Primitiva's  father.  But  it's  really  halves,  mind 
you,  and  when  my  comedy  is  produced,  you'll  have  to  reckon 
with  me.  They  like  what  I've  written — the  women — they  think 
it  '11  make  a  hit — I  read  them  the  night's  work  after  lunch  the 
next  day — of  course,  I  always  lunch  with  them  after  the  morn- 
ing's sitting.  Ah,  here  we  are  !" 

They  had  emerged  from  the  sheltered  quarry  and  met  the 
smack  of  the  salt  wind  from  the  moaning  sea-front.  A  lawn 
ran  out  to  meet  the  pebbly  beach,  from  which  it  was  separated 
by  a  low  stone  wall ;  the  ancient  slate-roofed  house  stood  out 
radiantly  cheerful  against  the  dusky  background  of  the  night 
and  the  cliffs.  Primitiva  was  at  the  door  looking  out  anxiously, 
and  a  man-servant  shared  her  anxiety,  or  at  least  her  vigil. 

"  How  delightful !"  exclaimed  Matthew. 

"  Yes,  weren't  we  lucky  ?"  said  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  "  It's  an  old 
family  residence.  The  owner  kept  it  untenanted  for  thirty  years, 
and  has  never  consented  to  let  it  before." 

The  ladies  took  off  their  things  while  the  men  brushed  them- 
selves in  the  hall,  where,  divided  by  a  heavily  carved  barometer, 
a  pair  of  faded  oil-paintings  hung — a  gentleman  in  a  wig  and  a 
lady  in  a  coif.  These  reminded  Miss  Regan  that  Matthew  must 
see  how  splendidly  Herbert's  portrait  of  Mrs.  Wyndwood  had 
turned  out  after  all.  "  The  rogue  !"  she  cried.  "  As  soon  as 


420  THE    MASTER 

he  thought  the  sittings  were  to  cease,  the  picture  picked  up 
wonderfully  !  And  now  he's  dilly-dallying  with  it  again  !" 

So  they  wandered  through  the  large  rambling  house  with  its 
old-fashioned  belongings  till  they  reached  the  room  which  Her- 
bert had  been  allowed  to  use  as  a  studio.  Matthew  saw  with 
joy  that  Herbert  had  let  the  glorious  face  and  figure  be  as  he 
himself  had  painted  them  in  that  spurt  of  inspiration,  and  had 
confined  his  own  attention  to  the  minutiae  of  the  dress,  which 
was  nearly  finished.  Olive  held  a  lamp  to  it,  awaiting  his 
praises.  He  had  a  moment  of  embarrassment. 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  he  said,  ambiguously,  but  raptu- 
rously. Then,  turning  to  Herbert,  he  added,  heartily,  "  If  your 
comedy  is  only  as  good,  old  fellow — " 

"  It  will  be,"  said  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  enthusiastically.  "  Who 
should  write  comedy  if  not  a  man  like  Mr.  Strang — I  mean  Mr, 
Herbert — a  man  who  has  seen  the  manners  of  men  and  cities  ? 
I  should  think  he  could  do  it  even  better  than  he  can  paint." 

"  But  he  has  one  disadvantage,"  said  Olive,  gloomily.  "  He 
is  witty." 

Herbert  stood  bowing  with  his  hand  on  his  breast  in  mock 
acknowledgment.  His  boyish  face  looked  flushed  and  handsome 
in  the  lamplight.  Matthew  had  a  spasm  of  despair — a  momen- 
tary sense  of  being  an  outsider. 

"  Don't  practise  your  footlights  bow  here,"  said  Olive.  "  No 
one  has  called  '  author  !'  " 

"  '  Many  are  called,  but  few  chosen,'  "  quoted  Herbert. 

"  I  wonder  how  I  should  come  out  under  your  brush  ?"  said 
Eleanor,  turning  to  Matthew.  His  black  fit  vanished ;  he  was 
taken  back  again  into  the  charmed  circle.  But  the  question 
remained  awkward. 

"  Not  more  beautiful  than  this,"  he  murmured.  "  Perhaps  you 
will  give  me  the  pleasure.  I  am  here  to  paint — partly,  that  is." 

"  Perhaps  in  town  ;  not  here.  I  want  to  be  out  and  about. 
Olive,  we  must  give  them  something  before  they  go  back  through 
the  cold  night." 

Olive  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  refreshment.  They  adjourned 
to  the  drawing-room,  a  spacious  apartment,  with  strange  heavy 
antique  furniture  and  curious  bronzes  and  vases,  the  ensemble 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  421 

made  more  quaint  by  the  irrelevant  presence  of  a  grandfather's 
chair,  with  its  high,  stiff  canvas  back. 

"  I  fished  that  up  from  the  kitchen,"  said  Olive.  "  It's  jolly 
to  sit  there  and  imagine  one's  self  an  old  crone  nodding  to  one's 
last  sleep." 

She  seated  herself  upon  it  forthwith,  nid-nodding,  and  against 
the  white  canvas  her  dark  face  shone,  lovely  and  young  and  more 
provoking  by  the  suggestive  contrast. 

Herbert  stood  over  her,  fidgeting,  his  fingers  drumming  ner- 
vously on  the  canvas  awning. 

She  sprang  up  and  threw  back  the  lid  of  a  mahogany  instru- 
ment, and  began  to  play  a  joyous  melody. 

Matthew  had  seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  window. 
Eleanor,  her  superb  arms  and  neck  bare,  was  opposite  him,  a 
wonderful  white  vision  in  the  soft-toned  light.  He  caught  her 
eyes  and  they  smiled  at  him,  the  friendly  smile  that  means  noth- 
ing and  everything. 

As  Olive  touched  the  keys,  his  breast  grew  tenderer;  where 
had  he  heard  those  tinkling  harmonies  before  ?  His  dead  child- 
hood came  back  to  him  for  a  moment — it  was  a  harpsichord,  and 
the  last  person  he  had  heard  playing  it  was  Ruth  Hailey.  A 
vision  of  her  girlish  figure  flitted  before  him,  then  passed  into 
the  picture  of  the  young  woman  with  the  sweet  earnest  eyes  that 
Billy  had  conjured  up,  then  faded  into  the  sweeter  vision  of  real- 
ity, as,  through  eyes  still  misty,  he  saw  Eleanor's  bosom  softly 
rising  and  falling  with  the  melody,  the  joyous  soul  of  which 
sparkled  in  her  eager  eyes.  The  tune  grew  merrier,  madder. 
Herbert  was  at  the  player's  side  now ;  he  was  talking  to  her  as 
her  long,  white  fingers  darted  among  the  keys.  Suddenly  the 
music  jarred  and  stopped  ;  Olive  leaped  up  and  ran  to  the  win- 
dow and  threw  it  open,  and  a  cold  wind  swept  in,  and  the  sol- 
emn sobbing  of  the  waves. 

"  There  it  is,"  she  cried,  "  the  great  lonely  blackness,  roaring 
outside  like  a  wild  beast  in  its  lonely  agony.  We  shut  it  out 
with  our  walls,  and  hang  them  with  pictures  and  plaques,  but 
there  it  is  all  the  same,  and  all  our  tapestries  cannot  quite  dead- 
en its  wail.  Don't  you  hear  it  in  the  darkness,  don't  you  hear 
it  crying  out  there — the  pain  of  the  world  ?" 


422  THE    MASTER 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  sprang  up  in  alarm  and  closed  the  win- 
dow. 

"  Olive,  Olive,  calm  yourself,"  she  said,  tenderly,  pressing  the 
girl's  face  to  her  bosom. 

Olive  broke  from  her  with  a  peal  of  laughter.  "  You  look 
as  if  you  had  seen  a  ghost,  Nor.  Are  you  afraid  of  the  black 
night  that  you  shut  it  out  ?  Are  you  out  of  tune  with  it  al- 
ready «" 

"  You  exaggerate  the  pain  of  the  world,  dearest,"  said  Elea- 
nor, soothingly. 

Herbert  looked  startled.  "  The  pain  of 'the  world  ?"  he  said. 
"The  futility  of  the  world,  you  mean.  People  eat  and  drink 
and  go  to  theatres,  and  over  their  graves  the  parson  prates  of 
infinities  and  immortalities.  Religion  is  too  big  for  us.  We're 
like  mice  in  a  cathedral." 

"  You  are  right."  Olive  dropped  wearily  into  the  grandfa- 
ther's chair.  "  God  said,  '  Let  man  be,'  and  nascitur  ridiculus 
mus" 

Eleanor's  eyes  kindled.  "  We  are  small  most  times,"  she  said. 
"  But  there  are  moments  when,  as  Wordsworth  says : 

"  '  Through  Love,  through  Hope,  and  Faith's  transcendent  dower, 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know.' 

I'm  not  afraid,  Olive.  There !  I  open  the  window  again. 
Come  and  look — not  at  the  black  night,  but  up  at  the  stars." 

Matthew's  soul  melted  in  worship.  He  moved  to  her  side 
and,  refreshed  by  the  cool  sea  air,  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  far- 
sprinkled  vault  where  the  moon  had  now  suffused  the  dark 
clouds,  which  seemed  to  have  grown  light  and  porous.  The 
two  infinities  of  sky  and  sea  brooded  together  in  the  night,  in- 
effably solemn. 

Olive  would  not  budge.  "  The  stars !"  she  shuddered.  "  Big, 
lonely  worlds." 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  did  not  hear  her.  "  Ah,  there's  the  Plough," 
she  said ;  "  and  there's  the  Polar  Star  in  a  straight  line,  and 
there's  Cassiopeia.  And  that's  all  I  know.  But,  oh  !  surely 
they  are  havens  of  rest,  where  the  tears  are  wiped  from  all  faces." 
Her  voice  faltered,  her  face  was  rapt  as  in  prayer- 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  423 

"  Won't  you  put  something  over  your  shoulders  ?"  Matthew 
said,  anxiously. 

"  No ;  it's  quite  warm.  Unless  perhaps  we  take  a  turn  up 
and  down  the  beach  before  you  go;  shall  we?  It  looks  so 
divine  out  there." 

He  was  startled  and  intoxicated  by  the  proposal. 

"Won't  you  come,  too,  Olive?  It's  nearly  ten  o'clock.  We 
must  be  sending  them  home  to  their  farm,  or  Primitiva's  father 
will  bar  the  door.  Already  we  have  a  reputation  for  witchcraft 
because  our  house  shines  afar  at  eleven  o'clock,  a  beacon  of  evil 
to  all  the  neighboring  hamlets.  In  London  we  should  just  be 
preparing  to  go  out." 

"  I  am  tired,  Nor.  You  can  have  a  turn,  if  you  like.  You 
go,  too,  Mr.  Herbert." 

Herbert  hesitated.  "  No,  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  leave  you 
alone." 

"  Does  company  prevent  one  from  being  alone  ?" 

"  I've  got  to  have  a  turn  in  a  moment,  anyhow,"  said  Herbert, 
weakly.  "  A  return,  alas  !" 

"  We'll  leave  them  to  fight  it  out."  And  Mrs.  Wyndwood 
laid  her  hand  a  moment  on  Matthew's  shoulder,  thrilling  him. 
They  went  out  under  the  stars.  She  had  taken  only  a  light, 
fleecy  wrap,  beneath  which  the  white  shoulders  were  half 
defined,  half  divined.  They  went  across  the  lawn  and  through 
the  gate,  and  crunching  lightly  over  the  little  pebbles,  walked 
towards  where  the  surf  bubbled  white  in  the  grayness.  All  was 
very  still,  save  for  the  eternal  monotone  of  the  sea.  There 
were  a  few  yellow  glimmers  from  the  villages  on  the  cliffs. 
Far  to  the  east  a  light-house  sent  watery  rays  across  the  night. 
They  stood  without  speaking,  in  a  religious  ecstasy,  breathing  in 
the  salt  air. 

At  last  the  delicious  silence  was  broken  by  her  more  delicious 
voice. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  came,"  she  said,  simply. 

His  breast  swelled  painfully. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  me." 

"  Oh,  I  mean  your  cousin  will  have  company," 

*'  Is  that  all  ?"  he  said,  audaciously. 


424  THE    MASTER 

"  And  then,  he  likes  to  be  with  Miss  Regan." 

"  Is  that  all  ?" 

She  smiled. 

"  You  are  too  ambiguous.  '  The  plain  truth  is  that  your 
cousin  prefers  to  talk  to  Miss  Regan  alone,  and  I  didn't  care 
about  appearing  a  marplot.  You  know  tb*3  proverb." 

He  was  never  shrewd.  Harassed  as  he  had  beon  by  his 
own  affairs,  Herbert's  admiration  of  Olive  had  never  struck  him 
as  a  serious  passion.  He  conceived  his  cousin  as  a  philander- 
ing person,  a  man  of  many  flirtations.  But  now  the  suggest- 
ion that  came  from  Eleanor's  lips  seemed  to  throw  a  flood  of 
light  on  everything,  even  :>n  Herbert's  remark  about  forbidden 
fruit.  For  once  Herbert  was  veritably  in  love.  In  his  relief 
at  the  butterfly's  choice  of  a  definite  flower  he  forgot  ^to 
resent  Mrs.  Wynd wood's  reason  for  giving  himself  her  com- 
pany. 

"Are  you  sure  it  isn't  you  he  admires?"  he  asked,  merely  for 
the  pleasure  of  her  denial. 

"  Oh  no !  I'm  an  old,  staid,  prosaic,  mature  widow.  My 
romance  is  over,"  she  sighed. 

She  never  looked  more  spiritual  than  thus  in  the  moonlight. 
But  he  could  never  bring  himself  to  the  conventional  compli- 
ments. He  asked,  simply  : 

"  And  what  about  Miss  Regan  ?" 

"  Ah  !  I  should  not  tell  you  if  I  knew,  and  I  don't  know.  I 
don't  profess  to  understand  Miss  Regan.  I  never  knew  any  one 
so  easy  to  live  with  and  so  difficult  to  understand.  But,  as  she 
doesn't  understand  herself,  I  don't  feel  humiliated.  Of  course 
she  has  always  had  men  at  her  feet,  and  she  has  refused  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  partis  in  the  kingdom.  I  was  afraid  she  hated 
men,  and  I'm  still  uncertain.  If  she  ever  does  marry  I  think  it 
will  be  to  spite  her  relatives,  to  make  them  lament  she  has 
thrown  herself  away.  Did  I  tell  you  that  she  quarrelled  with 
them  all  and  came  to  live  with  me?" 

"Yes,  you  told  me.     And  you  were  unhappy  then  ?" 

She  passed  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  You  are  not  unhappy  now  ?" 

She  smiled,     "  Are  you  fishing  for  compliments  ?" 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  425 

"  Indeed  not.  Only  I  am  so  sorry  for  you."  His  voice 
trembled. 

"  Let  us  walk  along,"  she  said. 

He  obeyed.  "  You  are  not  angry  with  me  for  being  sorry  ?" 
he  faltered. 

"  No,  sympathy  is  always  sweet.  Though  I  do  not  deserve 
it,  some  people  will  tell  you." 

"  What  people  ?"  he  asked,  fiercely. 

"  Olive's  people.  They  all  say  I  saddened  my  husband's  last 
hours.  He  was  brought  home  dead  from  the  hunting-field,  you 
know.  He  had  been — but,  no  !  de  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum." 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  softly. 

She  began  to  speak,  then  broke  off.  "  No,  why  should  I  tell 
you  ?"  she  said,  gently. 

"  Because — because — I  want  to  be  your  friend." 

Her  bosom  heaved.     She  caught  her  breath. 

"  It  was  a  vile  sporting-house."  She  shuddered.  "  He  left 
me  with  an  oath  on  his  lips." 

Matthew  Strang  was  at  boiling-point.  He  ground  the  pebbles 
furiously  under  his  foot.  Oh,  the  infamy  of  Society  1  That  this 
lily  should  have  been  handled  roughly  !  It  was  sacrilege.  And 
yet,  in  some  subtle  way,  he  felt  her  more  human  than  before. 
She,  too — painful  as  it  was  to  realize  it — had  known  the  mire  of 
life  ;  she,  too,  this  delicate  flower  of  womanhood  !  though  it  had 
left  her  unsullied,  ethereal  still.  Then  she  would  understand  what 
he  had  gone  through,  she  would  know  how  coarse  and  unlovely 
life  could  be.  He  felt  strangely  nearer  to  her  heart  at  this  mo- 
ment ;  some  icy  partition  had  melted  away. 

She  ceased  walking,  and  put  both  hands  over  her  face.  The 
fleecy  wrap  quivered  on  her  shoulders.  He  waited  in  silent  rev- 
erence. 

"  Perhaps  I  was  inconsiderate,"  she  said  at  last,  lifting  her  face 
dimmed  with  tears,  "  not  forbearing  enough." 

"  You  angel !"  he  whispered. 

"  You'll  hear  another  story  from  his  people.  All — except 
Olive.  They  will  tell  you  that — that  I  am  a — "  she  smiled  wist- 
fully—" a  flirt." 

He  had  no  words  hot  enough.     He  kicked  a  stone  savagely. 


426  THE    MASTER 

"  The  vile  slanderers  !"  he  cried.  u  They  are  all  tarred  with  the 
same  brush.  You're  lucky  to  be  done  with  them." 

"  There  was  young  Gerard  Erode  staying*  in  the  house,  a  mere 
boy  up  from  Oxford  and  bubbling  over  with  Socialism.  I  was 
interested  in  his  theories  and  we  had  long  talks,  and  I  tried  to 
convert  Douglas — that  was  my  poor  husband — and  to  persuade 
him  that  we  ought  to  divide  our  property  with  everybody  ;  but 
he  met  me  with  coarse  ribaldry,  and  said  he  wasn't  going  to 
divide  his  wife  with  any  man,  least  of  all  a  whipper-snapper  like 
Gerard  Erode,  and  feeble  taunts  like  that,  and  that  was  the  be- 
ginning of  our  dissensions." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Wyndwood !"  he  said,  and  felt  it  a  sweet  privi- 
lege to  pity  her.  "  And  so  you  spent  your  fortune  on  the  move- 
ment." 

She  smiled  sadly.  "  Scarcely  my  fortune.  Poor  Douglas 
never  lived  to  inherit,  and  I  wasn't  born  with  a  gold  spoon  in  my 
mouth,  though  it  had  a  crest  on  it.  But  who  has  been  telling 
you  about  my  indiscretions  ?"  She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer, 
adding:  "  Eut,  there,  you  know  all  about  me  now,"  and  her  pa- 
thetic smile  had  a  dazzling  camaraderie,  though  it  flickered  away 
as  she  wound  up  meditatively  :  "  I  wonder  why  I  told  you.  Shall 
we  go  in  ?" 

"  Not  yet,"  he  pleaded,  hastily.  "  Oh,  if  you  knew  how 
proud  I  am  of  your  confidences  !  That  they  should  be  made  to 
me — to  me !  Oh,  if  you  knew  what  my  life  has  been  !"  He 
felt  choking. 

"  You  terrify  me,"  she  returned,  lightly.  "  Nothing  very 
dreadful,  I  trust." 

"  I  am  nothing,  nobody."  He  struggled  with  his  voice.  "  I 
have  slept  in  the  streets.  I  have  consorted  with  the  vilest." 

"  All  the  more  honor  to  you  that  you  are  fine." 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  met  you  before  !  You  would  have  inspired  me, 
uplifted  me." 

"  No  higher  than  you  are." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  understand.     I  have  been  so  poor." 

"  Poverty  is  not  a  crime." 

"  I  have  been  in  prison." 

"  You  were  innocent !"     Her  face  shone. 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  427 

"  It  was  only  for  debt.  I  was  the  victim  of  a  bankruptcy,  and 
I  have  paid  it  all  off  since.  But  the  stain  remains." 

"  On  the  laws  that  put  you  there." 

He  gulped  down  the  great  lump  that  made  his  throat  dry  and 
painful.  "  I  was  born  in  a  poor  Nova-Scotian  village.  No  one 
cared  for  Art." 

She  stooped  down  and  plucked  up  a  sea-pink.  "  See !  how 
sturdily  it  grows  among  the  stones!" 

Now  all  the  pent-up  self-pity  of  the  long,  solitary  years  burst 
forth  in  a  great  torrent,  breaking  through  the  proud,  passionate 
reserve  that  no  living  being  had  ever  penetrated  ;  his  soul  yield  • 
ed  up  its  secrets  in  a  strange  blend  of  pride,  self-depreciation, 
and  yearning  for  the  woman's  sympathy. 

"  I  have  had  to  carry  the  hod,  to  climb  the  mast." 

"  You  climbed  nearer  heaven." 

"  Ah,  but  I  swabbed  the  deck." 

"  You  touched  life  at  first  hand.  I  have  never  envied  you  so 
much  as  now.  We  never  get  near  its  secret,  we  idle  rich." 

"  You  glorify  my  past  for  me.  I  see  it  now  as  a  divine  edu- 
cation. I  have  been  living  for  false  ideals.  Oh,  if  you  could 
glorify  my  future !" 

"  I  should  be  proud  to  inspire  it !"  The  flash  in  her  eyes 
passed  to  his. 

"  If  I  could  see  you  every  day,  if  I  could  tell  you  my  hopes, 
my  dreams.  But  what  am  I  asking?  It  is  impossible.  You 
are  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  and  I — " 

"  A  genius,  a  Master !     Towering  over  a  humble  slave  !" 

Her  eyes,  swimming  in  tears,  but  shining  still,  like  stars 
through  rain,  sought  his  in  humble  adoration.  Never  had  he 
pictured  such  a  look  from  her.  He  shook,  divining  undreamed- 
of possibilities.  For  a  moment  he  forgot  everything.  He  caught 
her  hot  hand  and  held  it  to  his  lips.  In  that  frenzy  of  divine 
fever,  half  fire,  half  tears,  he  felt  again  that  love  rationalized 
life.  An  infinity  of  thought  and  emotion  was  concentred  in  the 
instant ;  his  long,  sordid  struggles,  his  craving  for  happiness,  the 
infinite  yearning  with  which  as  a  boy  in  a  lonely  forest  he  had 
looked  up  at  the  stars.  This  was  the  secret  of  his  yearning, 
this  the  flash  that  illumined  life.  And  underlying  and  inter- 


428  THE    MASTER 

tangled  with  everything,  an  astonishment  at  the  vast  sweep  of 
life,  the  possibilities  it  held.  Last  night  Rosina  and  Camden 
Town ;  to-night  Eleanor  and  the  sea  and  the  stars. 

She  drew  her  hand  away  gently,  though  there  was  no  rebuke 
in  the  withdrawal,  murmuring,  "  We  must  be  going  in,"  and 
straightway  the  image  of  Rosina  arose  sinister  and  vindictive, 
her  voice  raucous  and  strained  to  a  ghastly  jocosity,  crying, 
"  Kisses,  they're  off  !"  And  then,  as  he  moved  silently  towards 
the  house,  thrilling  with  the  memory  of  her  hand  and  her  look, 
prisoned  sobs  still  fluttering  at  his  throat,  he  had  a  sudden  par- 
adoxical intuition  that  if  he  spoke  of  his  wife,  as  he  had  been 
on  the  point  of  doing,  something  would  go  out  of  the  magic 
of  those  touches  and  glances,  all  spiritual  though  they  were. 
The  figure  of  Rosina — sinister  and  vindictive — would  stand  be- 
tween their  souls,  troubling  their  most  transcendental  moments. 
Was  not  a  man's  wife  the  natural  recipient  of  his  confidences, 
the  nurse  of  his  Art  ?  And  then,  if  Eleanor  knew  that  he  was 
ashamed  of  his  wife,  that  he  had  always  passed  as  a  bache- 
lor, would  she  not  deem  him  contemptible  ?  The  fine  ethical 
sense  that  had  refused  to  despise  him  for  material  degrada- 
tions, would  it  not  certainly  scorn  him  for  moral  weaknesses  ? 
A  great  temptation  took  him  not  to  imperil  by  indiscreet  speech 
the  footing  he  had  won.  But  his  soul  had  been  moved  to  its 
depths.  To  be  false — and  with  her  ! 

"  I  have  not  told  you  all,  Mrs.  Wyndwood." 

"  You  can  tell  me  nothing  nobler." 

That  was  like  an  icy  wind.  He  walked  on  storm  -  tossed. 
They  came  to  a  jutting  crag,  skirted  it,  and  the  house  rose  radi- 
ant in  the  hollow  of  the  cliff.  He  had  an  aching  vision  of  their 
living  there  together,  she  and  he,  with  all  the  dear  domesticities 
of  wedded  union.  His  fancy  feigned  them  re-entering  now 
their  joint  domain.  The  pretence  left  his  heart  sick  and  empty. 
They  walked  across  the  lawn.  "  You  would  not  call  me  noble," 
he  said,  coming  to  an  abrupt  stand-still,  "  if  you  knew  that  I — " 

He  flinched  under  the  sceptical,  confident  smile  she  threw 
over  her  shoulder. 

"  That  I  am  married." 

The  half-mocking  smile  faded  from  the  beautiful  face,  and 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  429 

with  it  the  color.  She  turned  her  head  again  towards  the  house, 
but  she  was  not  moving  forward. 

He  was  glad  he  had  not  to  meet  her  eyes.  The  sea  broke 
solemnly  with  a  fused  roar  of  irregular  waves,  and  he  wondered 
why  the  sound  was  so  continuous.  A  cricket's  chirp  in  the 
cliff-bushes  seemed  to  him  extraordinarily  loud.  He  looked  up 
at  the  stars.  Were  the  tears,  indeed,  wiped  from  all  eyes  in 
those  shining  islands,  he  thought,  or  were  they  only  dead,  lonely 
worlds  ?  Or  were  they  alive  and  full  of  unhappy  people  like 
the  star  he  stood  on  ? 

She  spoke  at  last,  with  a  catch  in  her  breath  and  a  strained 
smile  in  her  voice. 

"  Why  should  that  make  me  think  less  of  you  ?" 

He  caught  only  the  celestial  reassurance  of  her  reply.  How 
fine,  how  sympathetic  she  was !  But  he  hastened  to  immolate 
himself.  Her  unexpected  question  had  thrown  him  off  the 
track ;  he  forgot  that  his  concealment  of  his  marriage  was  the 
only  circumstance  for  which  he  had  foreseen  the  world's  blame, 
and  he  answered,  desperately, 

"Because  I  married  for  money." 

"  For  money,"  she  repeated,  in  a  toneless  voice. 

He  was  cold  and  sick  with  shame.  Despite  her  experience 
of  the  coarser  side  of  life,  such  a  contingency  was,  he  felt,  quite 
beyond  her  comprehension.  That  money  played  no  part  in  her 
consciousness  he  would  have  divined,  even  if  her  friend  had  not 
informed  him  of  the  fact  in  their  first  talk.  An  impulse  had 
driven  him  to  humble  himself,  a  counter-instinct  now  spurred 
him  to  excuse  himself. 

"It  was  to  pursue  my  art  career,"  he  said,  deprecatingly. 
Even  now  he  would  not  speak  of  the  younger  children  he  had 
had  to  support. 

She  turned  her  head  again,  and  the  smile  was  struggling 
back,  and  her  voice  had  an  echo  of  the  old  enthusiastic  ring. 

"  Then  you  married  for  Art,  not  for  money  !" 

"  Ah,  do  not  comfort  me  !     My  God,  how  I  am  punished  !" 

She  veered  round  now.  Her  tones  were  low  and  trembling 
with  compassion. 

"  Is  she  a  bad  woman  ?" 


430  THE    MASTER 

"  She  is  worse  !  She  is  a  good  woman.  AD  her  thoughts 
are  on  the  household ;  it  is  unbearable.  Never  a  thought  of 
anything  but  the  kitchen  and  cabbages." 

"  Poor  woman  !"  she  said. 

The  prisoned  sobs  could  hardly  be  choked  back  now. 

"  The  world  does  not  know.  I  have  been  ashamed  of  her. 
Now  you  see  how  low  I  am,  you  cannot  respect  me." 

Her  voice  was  almost  a  whisper. 

"  I  respect  you  the  more  for  what  you  have  done  in  despite 
of  her.  You  have  had  a  hard  life." 

"  Oh,  have  I  not  ?"  and  a  sob  escaped  at  last. 

"  Compose  yourself.     We  must  go  in." 

"  You  will  be  my  friend  all  the  same  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will  be  your  friend.  Your  confidences  are  safe  in 
my  keeping.  There  is  my  hand." 

He  took  it  again  and  held  it  fast,  feeling  its  warm  response. 
"  You  make  me  so  happy  !  Life  will  not  be  empty  now."  He 
struggled  with  the  lump  in  his  throat.  "  With  your  friendship, 
what  can  I  not  achieve  ?  You  shall  tell  me  what  I  am  to  strive 
for." 

"  It  is  too  great  a  responsibility.  It  was  all  very  well  to  crit- 
icise. I  sha'n't  know  what  to  say." 

"  You  need  say  nothing.  I  shall  look  into  your  eyes  and 
read  it  there." 

He  looked  into  them  now,  and  they  were  not  lowered.  They 
were  full  of  sympathetic  sweetness,  glistening  behind  tears. 

"  I  am  afraid  they  are  rather  red,"  she  said,  with  a  melancholy 
smile.  "  If  I  am  not  careful  they  may  betray  your  confidences." 

She  moved  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  water,  and  he, 
turning  on  his  heel,  followed,  wondering.  By  a  salt  pool  near 
the  rim  of  the  billows  she  bent  down  and  bathed  her  face.  To 
see  her  half  kneeling  in  the  moonlight  affected  him  like  read- 
ing poetry  ;  and  as  she  washed  off  the  traces  of  the  tears  he  had 
made  her  shed,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  their  spiritual  friendship 
were  being  consecrated  by  some  mystic  baptism. 

They  went  in.  Olive  had  not  moved  from  her  indolent  atti- 
tude in  the  grandfather's  chair.  Herbert  was  standing  at  the 
window-curtain. 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  431 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  in,"  she  said,  yawning.  "  Mr.  Her- 
bert has  been  sulking  at  having  been  left  behind,  and  I  have 
been  snapping  his  head  off  for  not  leaving  me  to  myself." 

"  Yes ;  Miss  Regan  speaks  the  truth  for  once,"  said  Herbert, 
audaciously. 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  Primitiva  is  not  here  to  have  her  ideal  shat- 
tered. Good-night — before  you  get  ruder." 

"  Good-night,"  he  responded,  "  before  you  get  truthfuller." 

"  Take  care  of  him  to-night,  Mr.  Matthew.  He  is  irresponsi- 
ble. Don't  go  by  the  cliff  route." 

"  Not  I.  Good-night,  Miss  Regan.  Good-night,  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood."  And  that  dear  secret  pressure  thrilled  his  palm  again. 

In  a  few  moments  the  two  cousins  were  marching  with  meas- 
ured step  along  the  winding  road.  Herbert  had  lit  a  cigar, 
but  Matthew  was  busy  enough  chewing  the  cud  of  his  memo- 
ries. 

"  Olive  was  rather  strange  to-night,"  said  Herbert,  breaking 
the  silence  of  the  cliff-tops. 

"  Not  more  than  usual,  surely  ?"  answered  Matthew. 

"  That's  your  conventionality  and  your  ignorance  of  women. 
I  never  found  her  strange  except  to-night  with  her  nonsense 
about  the  pain  of  the  world." 

"  She's  talked  to  me  like  that  before  several  times ;  she  thinks 
people  with  souls  can't  be  happy.  I  suppose  it's  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood's  influence  over  her  natural  flippancy." 

"  Ah,  perhaps  so.  But  why  so  formal,  Matt  ?  You  have  my 
permission  to  call  her  Eleanor." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Matthew,  with  a  forced  smile. 

"  I  hope  you  enjoyed  your  tete-a-tete  more  than  I  did.  Not 
that  there  isn't  a  certain  fascination  in  sparring.  But  perhaps 
you  fought,  too." 

He  returned  a  staccato  "  No." 

After  a  silence  accentuated  by  the  tramp,  tramp  of  their  au- 
tomatic feet  as  they  swung  along,  he  said :  "  I  told  her  I  was 
married." 

Herbert  gave  a  long  whistle.  "  The  devil  you  did !  And 
you  don't  call  that  fighting?  What  a  knock-down  blow  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  Matthew  murmured. 


432  THE    MASTER 

"  D'  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  the  woman  is  in  love 
with  you?" 

Matthew's  blood  made  delicious  riot  in  his  veins.  He  saw 
that  strange  look  of  worship  in  her  eyes  again. 

"  Nonsense !"  he  jerked,  thickly.  "  The  Honorable  Mrs. 
Wyndwood  in  love  with  me !" 

"  I  didn't  say  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  I  said  the 
woman.  Trust  me.  Behind  all  the  titles  and  the  purple  and 
the  fine  linen — there's  flesh  and  blood." 

"  It  is  impossible.     In  love  with  me  /" 

"  You  may  well  be  astonished,  you  duffer.  To  fix  her  affec- 
tions on  you  with  me  in  the  neighborhood !  But  women  were 
always  strange.  And  men  were  deceivers  ever." 

"  All  the  more  reason  I  shouldn't  deceive  her.  How  glad  I 
am  I  told  her  the  truth.  I  breathe  easier,  there's  a  weight  off 
my  mind." 

"  You  selfish  beggar  !  And  now  it's  all  over  between  you,  1 
suppose,  and  our  nice  little  constitutional  quartette  is  broken 
up.  And  I  thought  it  was  going  to  be  so  jolly  when  you  came 
down.  Heigho !" 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Matthew,  with  a  touch  of  bitterness. 
"  Eleanor — Mrs.  Wyndwood  and  I  are  going  to  be  better  friends 
than  ever — thank  God !" 

"  Thank  whom  ?     Don't  be  blasphemous." 

"  Thank  God,"  repeated  Matthew,  firmly. 

"  Oh,  well,  you  were  always  a  Methodist  parson.  But  if  I 
were  a  Jew,  I  wouldn't  say  grace  over  pork.  Not  a  bad  epigram 
that ;  I  must  get  it  into  my  comedy." 

Matthew  shuddered.  Herbert's  tone  was  desecrating.  "  You 
don't  understand,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  plume  yourself  on  your  superior  intelligence,  old  man. 
Mine's  quite  equal  to  the  study  of  Plato.  It  isn't  such  Greek  to 
me  as  you  imagine." 

"  Well,  whatever  you  think,  you  are  quite  wrong,"  he  replied, 
with  spirit.  "  Our  friendship  is  on  a  different  plane.  It  is 
based  on  our  common  interest  in  Art — and  Mrs.  Wynd wood's 
not  the  sort  of  woman  you've  had  experience  of." 

"  Well,  that's  cool !     How  do  you  know  what  sort  of  women 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  433 

I've  had  experience  of?  Besides,  a  woman  is  a  woman.  The 
world — our  world,  that  is — is  full  of  Greek  scholars  who  study 
Plato.  Strictly  under  the  rose.  Society  is  only  an  incarnate 
wink." 

"  I  should  put  that  into  the  comedy,"  sneered  Matthew. 

"  It's  a  quotation  from  it,"  laughed  Herbert.  "  Had  you 
there,  my  boy." 

It  nearly  came  to  a  quarrel.  But  Herbert  good-naturedly 
said  he  must  save  Matthew  from  himself,  and  he  fervently 
hoped  his  cousin  would  not  confide  in  any  more  women.  "  You 
can't  syndicate  a  secret,"  he  said,  sternly. 

At  the  house  they  had  left,  things  were  equally  disturbed. 
Mrs.  Wyndwood  retired  at  once  to  bed,  throwing  herself  upon 
it  in  her  clothes ;  and  her  delicate  white  shoulders,  which,  like 
her  emotions,  had  no  need  to  be  covered  up  now,  rose  and  fell 
spasmodically.  After  a  while  she  got  up,  bathed  her  eyes 
again,  in  fresh  water  this  time,  and  went  into  Olive's  room.  Miss 
Regan  was  brushing  her  dusky  tresses  savagely.  She  had  sent 
her  maid  to  bed. 

"  Nice  hours,"  she  growled. 

"You'll  catch  cold,  dear,"  Eleanor  replied,  gently,  for  a  win- 
dow was  wide  open  at  the  bottom. 

"  Nonsense,  Nor,"  said  Olive,  petulantly.  "  I  should  like  to 
sleep  on  the  beach." 

"  What,  in  this  costume  ?" 

"  One  bathes  in  less.     Still,  while  you're  here — " 

She  closed  the  window  with  a  bang. 

"  Olive  !     You  make  my  heart  jump." 

"  Really  ?     I'm  not  a  man." 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  colored  painfully,  then  looked  at  her  with 
brimming  eyes  of  reproach.  "  And  this  is  my  reward  for  leav- 
ing you  tete-a-tete" 

"  Leaving  me  tete-a-tete.     I  thought  that  was  a  by-product.'' 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  controlled  her  vexation.  **  I  said  just  now  I 
had  never  known  any  one  so  easy  to  live  with.  Don't  make  me 
change  my  opinion,  dear." 

"So  you've  been  discussing  me  with  Matthew!  And  what 
right  have  you  to  discuss  me  with  anybody  ?  Oh,  how  hateful 

28 


434  THE    MASTER 

everybody  is !  I  know  what  it  is.  You'd  like  to  see  me 
brought  down  to  your  level." 

"Good-night,  Miss  Regan.  You  will  apologize  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"  Don't  glare.  The  level  of  womanhood,  if  you  like.  You've 
loved  a  man." 

Eleanor's  face  flushed.  "  That  is  the  height  of  womanhood, 
Olive." 

"  Oh  yes — fine  phrases  !  The  height  of  womanhood  !"  She 
drew  a  comb  fiercely  through  her  hair.  "  To  hang  on  a  man's 
lips,  to  feel  a  foolish  sense  of  blankness  when  he  isn't  there,  and 
a  great  wave  of  joyful  pain  when  he  heaves  in  sight  again.  To 
kiss  his  every  little  note  !  To  think  of  him  and  your  trivial  self 
as  the  centre  of  the  universe,  and  to  want  the  planets  to  spin 
for  your  joint  happiness — oh  !"  She  pulled  the  comb  viciously 
through  a  knot. 

"  You  describe  it  very  accurately,  Olive,"  said  her  friend,  ma- 
liciously. 

"  I'm  quoting  the  novels.  This  passion  that  they  crack  up 
so  much  seems  nothing  more  than  selfishness  at  compound  in- 
terest." 

"  Selfishness !  When  you  yourself  say  it  makes  you  yearn 
for  the  other  person's  happiness." 

"  So  that  it  may  subserve  yours." 

"  You  are  a  cynic." 

"  What  is  a  cynic  ?  An  accurate  observer  of  life.  Oh,  you 
needn't  smile.  I  know  I'm  quoting,  but  one  can't  put  quotation 
marks  into  one's  conversation.  You  can't  face  the  facts  of  life, 
Nor.  You  like  dull  people  without  insight." 

"  I  like  you." 

"That's. too  cheap.  You  like  socialists  and  spiritualists  and 
poets  and  painters — the  whole  spawn  of  idealists.  Bah  !  They 
ought  to  have  a  month's  experience  of  a  hospital." 

"  The  world  isn't  a  hospital  ward,  Olive.  The  people  I  like 
have  the  truer  insight." 

"  What  insight  has  your  Matthew  Strang  ?" 

"  He  is  as  much  yours  as  mine." 

"Don't  shuffle  out  of  the  question." 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  435 

"  His  insight  expresses  itself  through  his  work.  He  doesn't 
talk." 

"  Is  that  a  hit  at  his  cousin  ?"  queried  Olive,  savagely.  "  If 
so,  it  falls  remarkably  flat,  considering  Herbert  Strang  paints  as 
well  as  talks." 

"  Olive,  why  will  you  put  words  into  my  mouth  ?  You  know 
how  much  I  admire  Herbert  Strang." 

"  Ah,  then  you  have  more  insight  than  I  gave  you  credit  for. 
You  may  even  understand  that  a  cynic  is  only  a  disappointed 
idealist,  a  saint  plus  insight.  His  soul  is  a  palace  of  truth; 
society  and  its  shams  come  to  the  test,  yield  up  their  implicit 
falseness,  and  are  scornfully  rejected.  The  stroke  of  wit  is  made 
with  the  sword  of  judgment.  Its  shaft  is  the  lightning  of  right- 
eous indignation." 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  felt  this  might  pass  well  enough  for  an  analy- 
sis of  Olive's  own  cynicism,  but  she  had  her  doubts  as  to  its 
applicability  to  Herbert's. 

Olive  puzzled  her  frequently,  and  shocked  her  not  seldom, 
but  she  felt  instinctively  that  hers  were  the  aberrations  of  a  no- 
ble nature,  while  the  cynicisms  of  Herbert  jarred  upon  her 
without  such  reassurance  of  sweet  bells  jangled.  Not  that  she 
doubted  but  that  he,  too,  was  much  more  idealistic  than  he  made 
himself  out — did  he  not  write  charming  comedy  love-scenes? 
Still  he  was  a  man  who  had  seen  the  world,  not  a  crude  girl 
like  Olive,  and  in  the  face  of  Olive's  affectionate  analysis  of 
Herbert — which  she  rightly  divined  owed  less  to  reason  than 
to  the  growing  love  for  him  which  she  had  long  suspected  in 
her  turbulent  friend — Eleanor  felt  vaguely  that  while  jarring 
notes  may  be  struck  from  the  soundest  keyboard,  they  may 
also  be  the  index  of  an  instrument  hopelessly  out  of  tune.  Of 
course  Herbert  was  not  that,  she  was  sure  ;  he  lacked  Matthew's 
idealism  and  manly  beauty,  but  he  was  handsome,  too,  in  his 
daintier  way,  and  charming  and  gifted,  and  probably  the  very 
husband  to  put  an  end  to  Olive's  psychical  growing-pains.  All 
this  mixture  of  acute  and  feeble  insight  occupied  Eleanor's  con- 
sciousness. 

But  all  she  said  was,  "  Is  that  Emerson  ?" 

"  No,  it's  me.     Now  go  to  bed  and  sleep  on  it." 


436  THE    MASTER 

"  I  shaVt.  I  couldn't  sleep  on  anything  so  hard.  Dear  me, 
what  a  lot  of  hair-pins  you  nave !  What  nice  ones !  I  must 
borrow  some." 

"  Take  them  all  and  go." 

"  Not  yet." 

"  I  shall  blow  out  the  candles,"  snapped  Olive. 

"I  love  talking  in  the  dark.  I'm  pining  for  feminine  conver- 
sation to  soothe  my  overwrought  nerves.  How  pretty  that  lace 
is  !"  Eleanor  touched  her  friend's  shoulder  cajolingly.  "  What 
exquisite  things  you  have  !  Everything — from  hair-pins  to  carv- 
ing-knives— perfect  after  its  kind,  like  the  animals  that  went  into 
the  ark.  It  will  be  difficult  to  give  you  a  wedding  present." 

Olive  laughed,  despite  herself. 

"  The  only  wedding  present  a  woman  wants  is  a  husband." 

"  You  have  had  plenty  of  those  presents  offered  you,  dear." 

Olive  shuddered  violently.  "  Imagine  existence  with  a  Guards- 
man or — worse  ! — with  that  doddering  young  Duke  !  Dulness 
without  idealism.  Your  Matthew  Strang  is  endurable — he  has  at 
least  the  family  idealism,  the  Strang  goodness,  though  he  car- 
ries it  so  much  more  heavily  than  his  cousin.  But  a  lifetime 
with  a  dull  man — who  wouldn't  understand  a  joke — who  would 
smile  and  smile  and  be  a  hypocrite !  Oh,  ye  gods !  I  should 
shriek !  In  a  year  I  should  be  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  or  the  Divorce 
Court.  Oh,  why  do  you  women  who  have  been  through  the  mill 
egg  us  girls  on?  Is  it  the  same  instinct  that  makes  an  ex-fag 
send  his  boy  to  Eton  ?  Or  do  you  think  it  improves  our  health  ? 
I  know  you  think  me  hysterical." 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  flushed. 

"Your  tongue  runs  away  with  you,  Olive.  You'd  do  better 
to  say  your  prayers.  I'll  leave  you  to  them." 

Olive  laughed  hilariously.  "  Aha !  I  thought  that  would 
get  you  to  go.  You  always  will  forget  that  I've  been  in  a  hos- 
pital. Say  my  prayers,  eh  ?  Let  me  see,  what  shall  I  say  ?  The 
one  I  used  to  say  in  the  hospital,  *  O  Lord,  I  beseech  Thee,  let 
not  this  be  counted  unto  me  for  righteousness,  for  Thou  know- 
est,  O  Lord,  that  I  can't  help  it.'  But  that's  not  applicable  now. 
Suppose  I  say  just  what's  in  my  heart,  as  the  theologians  rec- 
ommend." She  went  down  on  her  knees  and  said  solemnly:  "  O 


A    DEVONSHIRE    IDYL  437 

Lord,  don't  you  think  you  are  sometimes  a  little  hard  upon  us? 
Don't  you  think  we  are  born  into  a  very  confusing  world  ?  It 
would  be  so  easy  to  do  Thy  will,  to  make  Thy  will  our  will,  if 
we  only  knew  what  it  was.  Don't  you  think  that  half  our  life 
that  might  be  devoted  to  Thy  service  is  wasted  because  of  the 
mist  through  which  we  grope,  bearing  the  offering  of  our  life  in 
quest  of  we  know  not  what  Divine  altar,  and  blurring  the  road 
more  thickly  with  our  tears  ?"  She  sprang  up.  "  How's  that 
for  an  addition  to  the  Liturgy,  Nor  ?" 

"I  am  disgusted,"  said  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  sternly.  "Both 
blasphemous  and  ungrammatical." 

Olive  threw  herself  back  on  the  bed,  laughing  unrestrainedly: 
"You  delightful,  stupid  old  thing.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Blasphe- 
mous and  ungrammatical !  You  Dissenting  Hellenist !  Sacrilege 
and  Syntax  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  No,  you  sha'n't  escape.  You  must 
abide  the  question.  Tell  me,  O  friend  of  my  soul,  why  do 
women  who  have  been  unhappily  married  want  to  see  other 
women  victimized  equally,  like  people  who  have  been  fooled  in  a 
penny  show  and  come  out  laughing  to  beguile  the  other  people  ?" 

"  That's  not  a  fair  analogy,"  said  Eleanor,  more  gently. 

Olive  looked  up  archly,  her  arms  under  her  head. 

"  No,  perhaps  not  in  your  case.  I  dare  say  you're  quite  capa- 
ble of  marrying  again,  yourself.  The  triumph  of  hope  over  ex- 
perience. Quotation  marks,  please.  You're  looking  awfully 
handsome,  Nor,  and  that  saucy  tilt  of  your  nose  spoils  you  for 
a  saint.  Speaking  as  an  ex-sculptress,  it's  like  a  blunt  pencil." 
She  sprang  up  remorsefully  :  "  Oh,  I'm  a  beast.  I  apologize  to 
your  nose.  I  forgot  the  tip  was  a  sore  point." 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  drew  back  in  sorrowful  hauteur.  "  I  shall 
never  marry  again,  Olive,"  she  said,  solemnly.  There  was  an 
under-tone  of  self-pity,  and  her  eyes  were  moist.  She  turned 
hastily  and  walked  from  the  room  with  a  firm,  stately  step. 

Olive  watched  the  sweep  of  the  gown  till  it  reached  the  door. 
Then  she  gave  chase  and  renewed  her  apologies,  and  let  Eleanor 
sob  out  sweet  reconciliation  on  her  shoulder. 

After  which  she  opened  the  window,  sat  on  the  side  of  the 
bed,  and  screwed  up  her  ripe  red  lips  to  produce  a  perplexed 
whistle. 


CHAPTER  VH 

THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES 

THEY  fleeted  the  days  delightfully,  as  men  did  in  the  golden 
world.  They  rode  together  on  the  rolling  moors,  they  drove 
through  the  Devonshire  lanes,  they  strolled  through  combe  and 
copse,  they  climbed  the  tors,  they  fished  the  leys,  they  swam 
in  the  sea,  and  when  it  was  cloudy  and  cold,  and  the  wind 
wailed  about  the  house  like  a  woman  in  pain,  they  listened  to 
the  comedy  which  Herbert  wrote  in  those  dreary  days  when 
the  ladies  drove  off.  to  distant  houses  for  lunch  or  tennis  or 
croquet.  For  they  had  not  quite  hidden  their  retreat  or  de- 
tached themselves  from  their  kind. 

"  There's  always  scandal  within  a  four-mile  radius,"  as  Miss 
Regan  put  it.  "  Is  there  on  earth  a  greater  piece  of  philan- 
thropy than  to  give  your  neighbors  food  for  gossip  ?  Man  can- 
not live  by  bread  alone."  Matthew  asked  her  in  concern  if  his 
and  Herbert's  visits  were  causing  any  talk. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Matthew,"  she  replied,  scornfully,  "  even  an 
actress  cannot  escape  scandal,  especially  if  she  goes  into  society. 
And  truly  society  is  so  corrupt,  I  have  often  wondered  that 
actresses'  mothers  allow  them  to  go  into  it !" 

During  one  of  these  absences  of  the  feminine  element,  when 
Herbert  went  over  to  the  house  to  put  the  last  touches  to  the 
painted  costume,  grumbling  at  the  boredom  of  such  finicking 
work,  Matthew  gladly  relieved  him  of  the  brush,  and  worked  up 
the  whole  portrait,  while  Herbert  lay  smoking  and  thinking  out 
the  comedy. 

Partly  out  of  bravado,  partly  to  enjoy  the  series  of  lovely 
views  of  dark-green  sea  and  broken  crags  and  nestling  villages, 
the  cousins  invariably  arrived  by  the  cliff-path,  seeing  the  black- 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  439 

berries  get  riper  every  day.  Sometimes  they  found  the  ladies 
sitting  reading  on  the  top  of  the  cliff,  which  was  furzy,  with 
a  road-side  border  of  hemlock  and  dandelions  and  blue  orchids, 
amid  which  their  dainty  parasols  showed  from  afar  like  gigan- 
tic tropical  flowers.  Then  while  Matthew  drowsed  in  the  light 
of  the  sun  and  of  Eleanor,  inhaling  the  odors  of  bracken  and 
thyme,  lazily  watching  the  white  surf  break  far  below,  the 
brown  trawlers  glide  across  the  horizon,  the  swallows  swarm 
on  the  beach,  and  the  wild  ducks  over  the  sea,  Herbert  and 
Olive  would  rattle  away  by  the  hour,  often  in  verbal  duels. 
Matthew  Strang  thought  he  had  never  tasted  such  pure  intel- 
lectual joy.  Art  was  often  on  the  tapis ;  they  classified  the 
skies  —  to-day  a  Constable,  and  yesterday  a  Turner,  and  to- 
morrow a  Corot.  Herbert  expounded  glibly  to  the  rapt  Eleanor 
the  Continental  ideas,  descanting  on  Manet  and  Monet.  Nature 
lay  all  around  them  like  a  model  to  illustrate  these  theories,  and 
Eleanor  discovered  all  sorts  of  shadows  and  subtle  effects  she 
had  never  noticed  before,  all  with  the  naive  joy  of  a  child  light- 
ing on  pretty  treasures.  She  cried  out  that  Art  taught  people 
to  see  Nature.  And  the  Impressionists  were  right.  Look 
over  there  !  You  couldn't  tell  whether  it  was  a  pool  or  a  pile 
of  fish.  And  the  colors  of  things  changed  incessantly  !  Mat- 
thew would  sometimes  put  in  a  word  when  appealed  to  by  her, 
but  never  when  the  subject  was  music,  concerning  which  he 
was  as  ignorant  as  the  rest  of  the  party  was  learned.  Once 
Herbert  maintained  that  the  musician  was  better  off  than  the 
painter,  because  his  work  remained,  while  pictures  perished, 
destroyed  by  the  aniline  and  bitumen  in  their  own  colors. 
"  Even  Mona  Lisa's  smile  will  fade,"  he  said.  "  The  artist  lin- 
gers a  little  longer  on  the  stage  than  the  actor.  Pictures  are 
but  paltry  things  at  best,  and  few  artists  have  brains  or  any 
large  outlook  upon  life.  They're  a  petty,  quarrelsome  clan." 
Matthew  did  not  deny  it. 

Olive  cited  sculpture  as  a  more  durable  art  than  the  musi- 
cian's, which  only  lived  when  performed.  Mrs.  Wyndwood 
was  convinced  that  the  joy  of  Art  must  be  to  the  artist ;  she 
said  she  was  fast  acquiring  a  keen  interest  in  the  subjective 
side  of  Art,  and  feeling  a  growing  desire  to  be  an  artist  herself. 


440  THE    MASTER 

The  Spiritual  was  all  very  well,  but  it  needed  to  be  expressed 
through  the  Beautiful. 

Olive  playfully  suggested  an  expedition  to  the  Latin  Quarter ; 
Mrs.  Wyndwood  accepted  it  seriously  and  eagerly  ;  she  returned 
to  the  idea  again  and  again,  both  in  public  and  in  private.  Why 
should  they  not  go  to  Paris  for  the  winter,  and  Olive  take  up 
sculpture  again,  and  initiate  her  into  the  divine  mysteries  ?  To 
judge  by  the  Strangs,  artists  must  be  delightful  creatures  to 
live  among,  and  sculpture  seemed  easier  arid  simpler  than  paint- 
ing. Olive  continued  to  play  with  the  project.  Herbert  sneered 
at  the  idea  of  Miss  Regan's  return  to  the  plaster  of  Paris.  Lit- 
erature was,  after  all,  the  only  art,  he  said.  It  contained  every- 
thing— music  of  words,  painting  of  scenery,  passion  of  drama. 
He  almost  converted  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  She  quoted  ecstatically, 
"L'univers  a  ete  fait  pour  aboutir  a  un  beau  livre"  But  a  word 
from  Matthew  restored  the  balance. 

They  talked  of  life,  too,  of  fate,  free-will,  and  knowledge  ab- 
solute, like  Milton's  archangels.  Herbert,  as  Lucifer,  steadfastly 
took  the  lowest  views  of  human  nature ;  now  and  then  Olive's 
eye,  twinkling  with  fun,  met  his  as  if  in  a  secret  understanding 
that  Mrs.  Wyndwood  must  be  shocked  at  all  hazards.  He  fought 
for  the  doctrine  that  sin  was  a  human  invention.  "  Let  people 
have  their  fling.  They  exaggerate  their  powers  of  sinning. 
They  think  they  can  draw  on  a  boundless  internal  reservoir  of 
wickedness.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  their  powers  are  singularly 
limited.  They  have  too  much  original  goodness.  For  my  part, 
alas !  I  have  found  few  opportunities  of  sinning." 

"  And  have  you  never  found  opportunities  for  remorse  ?" 
Mrs.  Wyndwood  asked,  scathingly. 

"  Alas !  often,  I  tell  you.  Remorse  for  the  sins  I  couldn't  do. 
The  remorse  of  your  religious  person  is  too  often  like  the  snivel- 
ling repentance  of  the  condemned  criminal.  That  murderer  felt 
a  truer  remorse  who  was  unexpectedly  reprieved  after  indulging 
in  an  indigestible  breakfast." 

Olive  laughed  heartily.     "  That  must  go  into  the  comedy." 

It  had  become  their  stock  phrase.  Then  remembering  her 
part  in  the  comedy  was  to  score  off  Herbert,  she  capped  his 
anecdote  of  the  condemned  criminal  by  another  about  the 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  441 

politeness  of  a  Frenchman,  who,  ascending  the  scaffold,  said  to 
his  neighbor  in  the  tumbril,  "Apres  vous." 

Eleanor  raised  the  talk  to  a  more  elevated  plane,  insisting  on 
the  value  of  remorse,  and  of  suffering  generally.  "  I  would  not 
recall  one  of  my  sufferings,"  said  she,  with  her  simple  earnest- 
ness. "  If  I  didn't  suffer  I  shouldn't  think  I  had  grown."  And 
her  eyes  instinctively  sought  Matthew's,  and  he  thought  she  was 
reminding  him  of  the  educative  efficacy  of  his  own  sufferings 
as  well,  and  again  Herbert's  philosophy  jarred. 

And  whatever  she  was  saying  or  doing  she  always  fell  natural- 
ly into  some  attitude  that  enchanted  his  eye  by  its  unaffected 
grace;  always  wore  an  expression  whose  sweetness  and  candor 
softened  him  in  worship.  Her  beauty — to  a  painter's  soul  the 
miracle  of  miracles — she  wore  with  a  royal  unconsciousness ;  he 
could  not  understand  it.  She  was  so  simple,  just  like  a  human 
being.  He  saw  her,  not  in  her  society  drapings,  but  in  all 
moods  and  weathers,  and  she  bore  the  test.  On  fishing  days 
they  would  draw  up  the  boat  in  the  centre  of  the  nearest  ley, 
where  perch  and  "  rudd  "  abounded,  the  former  avid  of  the  gen- 
tles, the  latter  only  less  eager  for  the  paste,  but  demanding  an 
iota  of  skill  when  hooked.  Olive  would  take  no  hand  in  this 
mild  sport;  she  had  given  up  hunting  and  fishing,  she  said, 
when  she  rose  in  the  ethical  scale.  Challenged  as  to  her  readi- 
ness to  eat  meat  and  fish,  she  failed  to  see  the  relevancy  of  the 
criticism.  The  reason  she  wouldn't  kill  other  creatures  was 
not  that  it  gave  them  pain,  but  that  it  gave  her  pain ;  to  eat 
them,  on  the  contrary,  gave  her  pleasure.  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  how- 
ever, though  not  callous  enough  to  impale  her  own  worms,  was 
persuaded  by  Matthew  to  take  a  rod,  and  beguiled  numbers  of 
perch,  and  admitted  to  a  thrill  of  savage  joy  each  time  she 
hauled  up  a  leaping  flash  of  silver.  She  was  glad,  though,  she 
said,  that  the  poor  little  fishes  had  horny  membranes  for  gills, 
so  that  the  hook  should  not  hurt  them  ;  when  it  passed  through 
the  eye,  she  trusted  that  the  cornea  was  insensitive,  too. 

"  But  how  would  you  feel,"  Olive  once  remonstrated,  "  if,  sit- 
ting at  dinner,  just  after  swallowing  a  mouthful  of  mayonnaise, 
and  in  the  middle  of  a  remark  to  your  neighbor  about  the  Rhine 
or  the  Pre-Raphaelites,  you  were  suddenly  to  find  yourself  rising 


442  THE    MASTER 

towards  the  ceiling,  at  the  end  of  a  rope  fixed  by  a  hook  to 
your  upper  lip,  and  arriving  slowly  but  surely,  despite  your 
kicking  and  writhing,  into  a  stratum  of  air  totally  devoid  of 
oxygen  ?" 

Herbert  Strang  thought  one  would  feel  like  a  fish  out  of 
water,  but  Matthew  Strang  eluded  the  point  by  drawing  a  pike 
across  the  track.  The  bait  of  a  captured  roach  had  fetched  the 
monster,  whose  struggles  interested  even  Olive,  while  Eleanor 
was  wrought  up  to  a  wild  enthusiasm  for  Matthew's  prowess, 
and  regretted  that  in  Scotland  she  had  always  refused  to  go  to 
see  the  grouse-shooting. 

"  1  hear  they  are  doing  badly  this  year,"  Olive  observed. 

"  Oh  no,  Olive,"  cried  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  "  Didn't  we  hear 
at  the  Archdeacon's  yesterday  that  they  were  making  excellent 


"  I  meant  the  birds,"  said  Olive,  dryly. 

"  Bother  the  birds  !  I  should  love  to  be  a  sportsman,"  cried 
Eleanor,  exultantly  landing  her  eleventh  perch.  They  trooped 
like  children  to  the  dinner-bell.  "  I  can  see  how  fascinating  it 
must  be.  To  actually /ee/  the  struggle  for  existence;  it  brings 
you  back  to  the  primitive.  You  touch  reality  ;  you  remember 
you're  an  animal." 

"  Lunch  always  reminds  me  sufficiently  of  that,"  said  Olive. 

"  No,"  Eleanor  argued.  "  The  napery  and  the  flowers  come 
between  us  and  the  facts.  How  glorious  it  would  be  to  be  primi- 
tive !"  Between  Art  and  Sport — with  that  charming  impres- 
sionability of  hers — she  had  drifted  as  far  from  the  spiritualities 
of  Dolkovitch  as,  under  the  Russian's  influence,  from  the  So- 
cialism of  Gerard  Brode. 

Herbert,  whose  skill  with  the  rod  was  not  remarkable,  di- 
verged into  an  account  of  his  stay  in  a  Servian  fishing-village 
which  was  entirely  primitive,  "  so  primitive,"  he  said,  laughing, 
"  that  the  wives  do  most  of  the  work."  He  sketched  the  place 
with  admirable  literary  touches.  "  Sheepskin  is  their  only 
wear,"  he  wound  up.  '*  In  the  winter  they  wear  the  wool  out- 
side. In  the  summer  they  take  off  their  skins  and — no,  not  sit 
in  their  bones,  as  Miss  Regan  is  about  to  remark — but  wear  the 
wool  inside," 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  443 

Matthew  was  thus  led  on  to  relate  juvenile  sporting  experi- 
ences on  the  shores  of  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  and  finally  his  one 
encounter  with  a  bear  in  the  Cobequid  forest,  which  put  the 
seal  on  Mrs.  Wynd wood's  new-born  ardor  for  sport.  This  tame 
picking-up  of  perch  palled  ;  they  must  go  mackerel-fishing,  she 
insisted.  And  so  Matthew  Strang  arranged  with  a  fisherman  to 
go  out  to  sea  in  his  boat  next  day.  But  the  sea  ran  high,  and 
to  the  undisguised  relief  of  Herbert,  who  felt  himself  rather  cut 
out  by  his  cousin  in  these  unliterary  expeditions,  Primitiva  ar- 
rived the  first  thing  in  the  morning  with  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Wyndwood,  saying  she  had  forgotten  the  lawn-meet  at  Colonel 
Chesham's  to  inaugurate  the  season  of  the  local  pack,  and  she 
would  ride  over  to  that  in  the  hope  of  catching  sight  of  a  bit  of 
the  hunt.  There  was  a  postscript  from  Olive,  saying :  "  And,  of 
course,  I  must  go  to  chaperon  her  among  all  those  men." 
Nevertheless,  they  went  out  in  the  boat  late  that  same  after- 
noon, when  the  ocean  was  calm  again  and  quivering  in  the  sun. 
Their  course  lay  along  a  track  of  diamonds  which  seemed  to  dance 
off  the  water  like  a  million  elves  of  light.  By  the  time  they 
returned,  the  path  of  diamonds  had  changed  to  one  of  red  gold. 
Delicious  was  the  ripping  sound  of  the  living  boat  tearing  the 
water,  as  it  dipped  gently  from  side  to  side,  its  white  sail 
bellying  gracefully.  The  sunset  was  strange :  one  dull  red 
narrow  bar  crowned  by  a  ball  of  molten  gold  radiating  four 
hazy  spokes  like  mill-sails.  The  ball  gradually  sank  in  the  sea. 
In  the  south  the  white  sickle  of  the  moon  grew  yellower  and 
yellower ;  in  the  east  fleecy  strips  of  cloud  reflected  the  dying 
day.  The  colors  of  the  cliffs  still  stood  out  vivid.  The  mo- 
ment was  poetic  ;  the  air  was  charged  with  amorous  electricity. 
The  talk  drifted  into  love  and  marriage. 

They  played  with  the  subject,  skimming  it  gracefully,  touch- 
ing it  with  subtle  lights,  flashed  and  withdrawn,  shooting  out 
audacities  with  ingenuous  impersonality,  all  four  the  while  tin- 
gling with  self-consciousness  from  crown  to  sole. 

Herbert  said  that  to  a  woman  love  is  a  complete  romance,  to 
a  man  a  collection  of  short  stories.  Olive  maintained  that 
the  reverse  was  true.  "  Oh,  if  man  knew  woman !"  she  cried. 
"  And  you  who  pretend  to  write  comedies  !" 


444  THE    MASTER 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  admitted  that  Byron  was  right  about  love 
being  all  in  all  to  a  woman.  "  Nine  -  tenths  of  unmarried 
women,"  she  said,  looking  at  Herbert,  "  have  never  had  a 
proposal." 

"  Nine-tenths  of  married  women  more  likely,"  Olive  flashed 
back. 

In  Matthew's  opinion  marriage  was  a  failure.  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood sadly  acquiesced.  They  sought  the  remedy. 

"  Marriage  may  be  a  failure,  but  not  friendship,"  Olive  pro- 
nounced. 

Now  it  was  Matthew's  eyes  that  Eleanor's  sought,  and  his 
involuntarily  met  hers.  There  was  exaltation  in  this  secret 
glance,  and  mutual  reassurance. 

"  Unless,"  pursued  Olive,  "  the  friendship  is  contracted  be- 
tween persons  of  different  sex." 

Mrs.  Wyndwood's  eyes  drooped ;  then  opened  full  again  to 
note  how  Matthew  took  the  addendum.  The  friends  perceived 
themselves  reddening  in  simultaneous  confession  that  Olive  was 
not  so  very  wrong ;  an  indefinable  expression,  half  abashment, 
half  radiance,  flickered  over  Eleanor's  features ;  her  glance, 
swift,  probing,  challenging,  dazzled  him ;  his  whole  frame 
trembled  at  the  thought  that  this  heavenly  creature  could  love 
him.  Then  he  grew  chill  again,  for  she  cried,  as  in  the  highest 
spirits : 

"  Oh,  look  at  the  sun !     How  comic  !" 

It  had,  indeed,  become  a  clown's  face,  swollen  and  bulbous 
and  crossed  with  red  bars. 

The  talk  went  on  to  Woman's  Rights,  and  Matthew  mentioned 
that  he  had  an  indirect  relation  to  the  subject,  because  a  girl 
he  used  to  know  in  childhood  had  become  Linda  Verder's 
secretary. 

"  Is  she  pretty  ?"  Mrs.  Wyndwood  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I've  never  seen  her." 

"  But  you  said  you  used  to  know  her." 

"  Oh !  you  mean  Ruth  Hailey.  She  used  to  be  pretty,  but 
my  brother  tells  me  she's  gone  off." 

"  Haven't  you  seen  her  yourself  ?" 

"Oh!  not  for  years." 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  445 

"  I  sent  Mrs.  Verder  a  subscription  some  few  years  ago," 
said  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  "  but  I  have  ceased  to  believe  in  Woman's 
Rights." 

"  Woman's  Rights  are  a  husband  and  children,"  said  Herbert, 
with  his  eye  fixed  on  Olive. 

"  It  is  a  mistake  for  the  movement  to  be  led  by  women," 
pursued  Mrs.  Wyndwood. 

"  Oh,  was  that  why  you  resigned  when  Lord  Boscombe  left 
the  Council?"  asked  Olive,  innocently. 

Eleanor  looked  annoyed.  "  You  mean,  Mrs.  Wyndwood," 
Matthew  hastened  to  say,  "  that  they  lay  themselves  open  to  the 
imputation  of  being  soured  spinsters." 

"  Precisely,"  she  replied.  "  Besides,  they  are  crying  for  the 
moon." 

"  Or  the  man  in  it,"  muttered  Olive. 

"No;  that's  ungenerous  to  your  sisters,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Why  demand  generosity  ?"  Olive  retorted.  "  We  are  all 
in  the  same  trade."  And  she  smiled  audaciously  at  Herbert. 
"  Even  Mrs.  Verder  didn't  take  up  with  this  movement  till  she 
lost  her  husband,  and  I'll  wager  this  Ruth  Bailey  is  an  old 
maid." 

"Ruth  Hailey,"  corrected  Matthew,  flushing  painfully,  he 
scarcely  knew  why,  perhaps  from  sympathy  with  the  aspersed 
friend  of  his  childhood.  "  She  is  unmarried,  but  I  am  quite  sure 
it  must  be  from  her  own  choice,  for  she  is  very  pretty." 

"  You  said  she  wasn't,"  said  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  quickly. 

He  laughed  confusedly.     "  I  was  thinking  of  the  girl." 

The  subject  dropped. 

Ere  they  got  in  the  wind  freshened  and  Matthew  was  busy 
with  the  sheet.  And  now  a  proposition  was  broached  which 
promised  to  bring  a  new  sensation  into  their  comparatively 
sequestered  existence.  Light-hearted  discussions  as  to  what 
they  would  do  in  the  event  of  capsizing  through  Matthew's 
mishandling  of  the  sail  led  to  estimates  of  the  distance  they 
could  swim  in  their  clothes.  Mrs.  Wyndwood  could  not  swim 
at  all,  and  complained  of  the  abrupt  shelving  of  the  beach, 
which  gave  her  only  a  few  feet  of  splashing  room,  while  Olive 
was  sailing  gloriously  off  in  search  of  the  horizon.  Herbert 


44(3  THE    MASTER 

said  that,  like  the  man  who  was  asked  if  he  could  play  the 
violin,  he  didn't  know  if  he  could  swim  in  his  clothes,  because 
he  had  never  tried,  and,  besides,  he  had  his  comedy  in  his  pocket, 
which  was  heavy  enough  to  drag  down  a  theatre.  Olive  said 
she  didn't  see  that  it  made  any  difference  whether  a  lady  swam 
in  her  clothes  or  not,  especially  if  she  was  in  evening  dress. 
She  claimed  that  the  cap  and  gown  worn  in  the  water  were  as 
heavy  as  men's  boating  flannels. 

The  upshot  of  the  discussion  was  that  Miss  Regan  challenged 
Mr.  Matthew  Strang  to  a  race  in  clothes,  which,  she  insisted, 
must  be  new.  "  You  don't  go  out  getting  capsized  in  old  clothes," 
she  contended.  "  Boots  you  needn't  have,  nor  a  coat ;  people 
always  have  time  to  throw  them  off — in  books.  I  shall  be 
clothed  in  a  new  yachting  costume,  superficially,  of  course,  to 
counteract  your  sheddings  from  above." 

"  What  waste  !"  remonstrated  Eleanor. 

"You  who  pretend  to  philanthropy  !"  mocked  Herbert,  mim- 
icking her  intonation  of  "  You  who  pretend  to  write  come- 
dies !" 

"Waste?  To  learn  to  save  my  life  !  And  don't  you  see  I 
shall  forthwith  give  away  the  spoiled  costume  to  a  poor  creature 
who  would  never  otherwise  have  got  it  ?"  And  Olive,  who  was 
quite  serious,  fell  to  elaborating  a  facetious  programme  of  "  The 
Creamery  Regatta." 

The  regatta  day  duly  arrived.  Two  bathing  tents  were  erected 
on  the  beach  and  decorated  with  flags.  It  was  arranged  that 
the  competitors  should  swim  out  leisurely  together  as  far  as 
they  cared  to  go,  then  turn  and  race  for  shore.  Herbert  was 
chosen  referee ;  he  offered  to  take  them  out  in  a  boat  and  then 
accompany  them  back,  as  a  precaution,  but  Olive  laughed  at  him 
for  an  old  woman.  Eleanor,  entering  enthusiastically  into  the 
fun,  had  ordered  a  silver  cup  from  London,  and  was  to  present 
it  to  the  winner. 

But  the  day  opened  badly,  with  fitful  weather ;  a  gray  rain, 
and  thunder  and  lightning.  They  waited  till  the  afternoon, 
when  the  sun  burst  out  in  sudden  fire,  and  in  a  moment  the 
great  stretch  of  gray  cloud  was  shrivelling  off  all  around  it  like 
a  burned  cobweb.  The  eager  combatants  dashed  into  their 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  447 

dressing-tents,  and,  emerging  as  lightly  clad  as  was  compatible 
with  the  conditions,  they  plunged  together  into  the  great  sap- 
phire sea.  Olive's  yachting  costume  turned  out  to  be  a  pair  of 
knickerbockers  and  a  jacket,  rather  lighter  than  her  ordinary 
bathing  costume,  and  Matthew  had  begged  off  his  waistcoat,  and 
was  only  hampered  by  a  white  flannel  shirt  and  trousers.  The 
outward  swim  was  an  ecstasy ;  the  water  was  warm  and  spar- 
kling with  patches  of  molten  silver  breaking  up  into  little  shin- 
ing circles  and  reuniting ;  it  sent  a  voluptuous  thrill  to  the 
palms  to  cleave  its  buoyant  elasticity,  and  the  forward  move- 
ment of  the  body  was  a  rapture.  Drawing  in  the  balmy  air 
with  joyous  breaths,  Matthew  felt  an  immense  gratitude  for  ex- 
istence. There  was  exhilaration  in  the  mere  proximity  of  Olive, 
with  her  lively  snatches  of  conversation.  Her  lovely  flushed 
face  and  dripping  hair  went  with  him  like  a  mermaiden's. 
The  same  thought  struck  her,  for  she  began  to  sing  jerkily 
with  her  beautiful  voice  snatches  of  Heine's  ballad : 

"  Die  schonste  Jungfrau  sitzet 
Dort  oben  wunderbar,   - 
Ihr  gold'nes  Geschmeide  blitzet, 
Sie  kammt  ihr  gold'nes  Haar." 

"  Yes,  but  you  haven't  got  golden  hair,"  the  man  laughed, 
joyously. 

Farther  and  farther  they  swam  into  the  vast  shimmering 
blue,  and  ecstasy  made  the  pace  brisker  than  they  had  medi- 
tated. 

"  Shall  we  start  from  here  ?"  he  asked,  at  last. 

"  No,  not  yet.     I  want  a  long  race." 

They  swam  on.  The  brown  trawling  boats  loomed  plainer 
in  the  offing. 

"  Here  ?"  said  Matthew. 

"  No— a  little  farther,  faint-heart !" 

He  turned  on  his  back  and  propelled  himself  gently,  gazing 
up  in  luxurious  content  at  the  great  circle  of  blue  sky,  cloud- 
mottled  round  its  rim.  Olive,  lying  on  her  side,  paddled  lazily 
a  little  ahead. 

"  This  is  delicious  !"  she  called  back.     "  Clothes  make  no 


448  THE    MASTER 

difference.     But  fancy  a  clothed  Lorelei !"    And  she  began  to 
sing  again,  with  pauses  for  breath  : 

"  Den  Schiffer  im  kleinen  Schiffe 
Ergreift  es  mit  wildem  Weh  ; 
Er  schaut  nicht  die  Felsenriffe, 
Er  schaut  nur  hinauf  in  die  HohV 

He  threw  the  reply  over  his  head :  "  You  shall  lure  me  no 
farther."  But  she  mocked  him,  elated  by  the  glory  of  motion, 
and  witched  him  to  follow  her  till  the  shore  was  far. 

At  last  they  turned,  trod  water,  Olive  cried,  "  One,  two,  three," 
and  they  were  off. 

For  some  minutes  they  swam  side  by  side,  Olive  making  the 
pace,  and  Matthew  finding  it  no  trouble  to  keep  up  with  it ;  at 
last  she  made  a  spurt  and  shot  past  him  with  a  triumphant 
taunt ;  he  allowed  her  to  enjoy  some  seconds  of  victory,  then 
came  up  hand-over-hand  and  forged  ahead.  He  eased  off  and 
she  overtook  him ;  he  spurted  and  she  flagged ;  he  let  her  come 
up  again  and  she  came  up  with  a  sneer.  Resolved  to  damp  her 
frolicsome  spirits,  he  put  on  a  powerful  stroke  and  showed  her 
a  clean  pair  of  heels.  She  made  a  desperate  effort  and  drew 
level  with  him  again.  The  instinct  of  victory  was  now  aroused 
in  the  painter  ;  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  shore  and  settled  stead- 
ily to  the  task  of  reaching  it.  Very  soon  Olive  was  hopelessly 
in  the  rear.  He  still  heard  her  vague  cries  from  afar.  At  last 
they  died  away  entirely.  He  turned  his  head  to  measure  the 
interval.  Olive  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

His  heart  contracted  with  a  cold  sick  horror.  He  raced  back 
with  great  side  strokes,  shouting,  "  Miss  Regan,  Miss  Regan, 
holloa  !"  The  great  sparkling  water  stretched  all  around  in 
deadly  silent  bareness,  suddenly  become  an  evil  enemy.  He 
hoped  desperately  she  was  only  swimming  under  water  for 
speed  or  to  frighten  him. 

And  then  in  a  moment  her  head  popped  up  to  the  right,  and 
he  saw  from  the  exhausted  expression  of  the  face  and  the  spas- 
modic struggles  of  the  limbs  that  she  had  really  gone  under. 
In  a  few  strokes  he  was  at  her  side.  She  still  retained  sufficient 
self-possession  not  to  grab  at  him ;  he  supported  her  with  one 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  449 

hand,  then  with  the  rest  of  his  limbs  he  struck  out  stoutly  for 
home,  she  helping  him  with  feeble  movements.  After  an  in- 
terval of  weakness  and  humility,  she  recovered  somewhat  and 
smiled  faintly. 

"  So  you  wouldn't  follow  the  Lorelei,"  she  spluttered,  re- 
proachfully. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  followed  her  so  far,"  he  said,  ruefully  regard- 
ing the  distant  shore. 

Olive  struggled  for  breath.  "  Prosaic  man  !  I  waited  down 
there  for  you,  but  I  gave  you  up  and  came  to  the  surface 
again."  She  essayed  sturdier  kicks. 

"  You  only  sank  once  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes  ;  didn't  you  hear  me  calling  you  to  come  ?" 

"  I  heard  sounds,  but  I  thought  they  were  epigrams." 

"  Brute  !  To  hit  a  woman  when  she's  down.  But  I  shall  be 
better  soon.  ...  I  hope  they  can't  see  us  from  shore." 

"  Don't  talk  !  You  brought  Herbert  an  opera-glass  to  see 
we  started  fair." 

"  Nonsense,"  Olive  gasped,  indignantly. 

"  I  distinctly  remember  it." 

"  How  dare  you  set  up  your  memory  against  a  drowning 
woman's  ?" 

He  was  glad  to  find  her  like  herself,  and  not  alarmed.  Her 
strokes  were  getting  stronger  now,  but  he  still  feared  for  the 
consequences  if  she  should  suddenly  lose  her  nerve.  "  What 
did  you  think  of  when  you  sank  ?"  he  asked,  lightly,  to  make 
her  think  the  danger  of  sinking  was  over. 

"  Of  Her — "  she  began,  and  stopped  short.  "  Of  her  carry- 
ings-on at  my  funeral,  poor  Nor.  I  was  regretting  I  hadn't 
made  my  will  and  left  her  my  nose." 

This  sounded  pure  nonsense  to  her  companion. 

"  I  think  I  can  go  by  myself  now,"  she  added,  after  a  long 
silence.  "  Thank  you  so  much  for  the  use  of  your  arm." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  ?"  he  said,  anxiously. 

"  Yes.     Of  course,  you  have  won." 

He  removed  his  arm,  but  kept  watchfully  at  her  side.  And 
his  misgivings  were  justified,  for,  after  a  slow  twenty  yards, 
her  strokes  became  so  spent  and  irregular  that  he  came  to  her 


450  THE    MASTER 

assistance  again,  and  she  accepted  his  support  with  a  wan 
smile. 

"  It's  this  soppy,  clogging  costume,"  she  said. 

"  You  had  better  keep  your  breath  in  your  lungs,"  he  said, 
not  in  rebuke,  but  in  hortation. 

"  I'll  inflate  myself  like  an  air-balloon,"  she  replied,  humbly. 
"  I  am  so  sorry  to  be  such  a  nuisance."  And  she  turned  upon 
her  back  and  paddled  feebly  in  silence. 

He  did  not  answer,  for  his  own  nerve  was  giving  way.  The 
responsibility  weighed  more  than  the  burden,  though  that  was 
heavy  enough  with  the  double  weight  of  superadded  garments. 
He  had  a  spasm  of  sickening  apprehension.  His  own  strokes 
were  getting  jerkier ;  what  if  he  should  fail  to  reach  that  strip 
of  beach  on  which  he  dimly  descried  two  agitated  figures  !  And 
in  this  tense,  terrible  moment  the  figures  were  blotted  out,  he 
saw  only  the  cliffs  in  the  background  and  the  white  sea-gulls 
overhead,  and  he  was  a  boy  again  in  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  swim- 
ming in  his  clothes  for  dear  life.  The  illusion  was  momentary, 
but  it  left  the  memory.  A  sense  of  the  tragic  contrast  between 
the  ardent  Nova-Scotian  lad,  dreaming  of  pictures,  and  the  pop- 
ular London  painter,  occupied  his  consciousness,  while  his  limbs 
moved  automatically  shoreward.  Then  he  remembered  that  of 
the  two  who  had  struck  out  for  home  on  that  memorable  day 
the  sailor  had  only  put  off  the  day  of  drowning.  And  at  the 
thought  that  ancient  dead  face  swam  up  again  in  front  of  him. 
Oh,  it  was  horrible  to  die,  to  be  dragged  down  out  of  the  sun- 
light, to  leave  a  world  which  held  Eleanor  Wyndwood !  What 
would  become  of  her  ?  She  would  live  to  forget  him  ;  she  would 
marry ;  another  man  would  hold  her  in  his  arms.  Another  man  ! 
Oh,  direful  thought,  bitterer  than  death  !  There  was  no  need  for 
his  death  ere  another  man  could  possess  her.  She  was  only  his 
friend ;  he  had  not  wanted  more  than  her  friendship.  Oh,  ghast- 
ly self-delusion !  Olive's  sneer  at  the  friendship  of  the  sexes 
rang  in  his  brain,  and  that  strange  intoxicating  expression  in 
Eleanor's  face  —  half  abashment,  half  radiance  —  dispelled  the 
vision  of  his  father's.  In  a  moment  of  delirium  his  lips  touched 
her  warm  cheek  ;  it  was  her  weight  that  was  on  his  arm.  What 
did  it  matter  if  they  had  a  gleam  of  happiness,  he  and  Eleanor, 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  451 

both  victims  of  an  unsatisfactory  world?  Was  not  the  great, 
shining,  mocking,  remorseless  sea  waiting  to  suck  him  down, 
indifferent  to  the  aspirations  and  agonizings  of  the  long  years? 
And  then  between  his  lips  and  hers  the  dead  stony  face  swam 
up  again,  and  he  turned  on  his  back  to  escape  it,  and  found  un- 
expected relief  in  the  more  reposeful  attitude  and  in  the  change 
of  arm  involved,  for  the  left,  which  had  supported  Olive,  had 
grown  numb.  When,  sufficiently  rested,  he  turned  again  he 
saw  with  a  thrill  of  joy  that  the  shore  was  perceptibly  nearer. 
There  were  more  than  two  figures  now ;  he  made  out  Primitiva 
and  the  old  cook.  And  Herbert's  arm  was  round  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood's  waist,  supporting  her.  A  powerful  spurt  brought  him 
within  clear  hearing  of  Herbert's  hail. 

"  Shall  I  come  out  ?" 

Olive  roused  herself.  "  What  for  ?"  she  sang  out,  lustily. 
"  The  race  is  decided." 

"  All  right,"  came  the  joyous  reply.  "  I  was  sure  Matt  could 
manage  it.  I  wouldn't  spoil  his  chances  of  a  medal." 

As  they  came  nearer  in  he  cheered  them  on  with  sportive 
ejaculations,  and  confounded  the  beach  because  there  wasn't  a 
single  boat  within  half  a  mile.  When  the  couple  scrambled  on 
shore,  shaking  themselves  like  spaniels,  Mrs.Wyndwood  dragged 
more  heavily  on  Herbert's  sustaining  arm,  and  he  saw  that  she 
had  fainted.  Almost  at  the  same  instant,  by  a  curious  coinci- 
dence, the  sun,  upon  which  the  clouds  had  gradually  been  clos- 
ing in,  again  disappeared,  and  the  wail  of  the  wind  rang  wilder 
round  the  cliffs. 

There  was  confusion  in  the  household  that  afternoon.  Mrs. 
Wyndwood  soon  revived,  but  had  to  be  put  to  bed,  and  Miss 
Regan,  who  was  secretly  grateful  for  an  excitement  that  kept 
her  from  assuming  the  invalid  herself,  sat  with  her.  The  men 
hung  about  the  house,  anxious,  and  receiving  frequent  reassur- 
ing bulletins  by  the  lips  of  Primitiva.  Presently  those  pretty 
lips  brought  them  an  invitation  to  stay  to  seven  o'clock  dinner, 
when  Mrs.  Wyndwood  would  try  to  come  down  to  present  the 
cup.  They  need  have  no  delicacy  about  the  larder,  for  Colonel 
Chesham  had  opportunely  sent  Mrs.Wyndwood  a  gift  of  grouse. 
They  galloped  over  the  cliffs  to  get  themselves  into  their  dress- 


452  THE    MASTER 

clothes.  Meantime  Mrs.  Wyndwood  had  fallen  asleep,  and  at 
her  bedside  Olive  Regan  writhed  in  a  black  paroxysm,  asking 
herself  why,  having  once  gone  down,  she  had  wanted  to  come 
up  again. 

The  hostesses  were  a  little  late,  but  the  reunion  was  gay  be- 
yond all  precedent.  The  last  trappings  of  ceremony  were  thrown 
off.  A  Bohemian  merriment  reigned,  regardless  of  the  liveried 
menial  who  alone  sustained  the  dignity  of  the  dinner-table.  Mrs. 
Wyndwood,  looking  a  shade  paler  and  more  spiritual,  but  no 
whit  less  beautiful  than  her  wont,  appeared  in  a  low  white  satin 
gown,  with  the  same  jewelled  butterfly  poised  at  the  bosom  as 
on  the  night  when  Matthew  had  met  her  at  the  Academy  soiree. 
He  fancied  some  occult  significance  in  the  circumstance.  Olive 
was  in  soft  green  that  harmonized  so  suavely  with  her  complex- 
ion as  to  give  her  a  less  aggressive  air  than  when  she  wore  blue. 
There  was  a  fragrant  tea-rose  with  a  sprig  of  maiden-hair  fern  at 
her  throat ;  and  the  table  was  gay  with  many  choice  specimens 
of  aster  and  hydrangea,  presents  from  Primitiva's  father.  Out- 
side the  roar  of  the  sea  and  the  wail  of  the  wind  emphasized 
the  charm  and  comfort  of  the  interior  and  the  gladness  of  being 
alive. 

There  was  a  wavering  flush  on  Mrs.  Wyndwood's  cheek  and 
a  shining  moisture  in  her  eye  as,  before  they  sat  down,  she  pre- 
sented Matthew  with  the  cup,  which  Olive  complained  had  been 
dashed  from  her  lips.  Interrogated  as  to  her  sensations,  she 
said  she  had  a  horrible  feeling  of  littleness  in  the  midst  of  the 
great  churn  of  waters  and  under  the  naked  sky.  It  did  not 
seem  the  same  sea  she  had  been  bestriding  so  recklessly  and 
voluptuously.  She  seemed  to  herself  absolutely  unimportant — 
a  mere  atom  in  the  blind  wash  of  the  waves,  a  straw  they  would 
engulf,  drift,  or  disgorge  with  equal  indifference.  It  was  this 
thought  that  suddenly  paralyzed  her,  and  made  her  give  up  and 
go  under ;  when  she  came  up,  something  not  herself  made  her 
strain  every  sinew  to  keep  afloat. 

"  Something  not  ourselves  that  makes  for  life,"  said  Herbert. 

She  smiled. 

"  My  last  thought  was  of  you,"  she  said,  audaciously.  "  I  de- 
termined to  send  you  a  message  by  submarine  cable." 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  453 

"  I  had  the  greatest  ado  to  prevent  Primitiva  stripping  and 
going  out  to  fetch  you  in,"  he  rejoined,  laughing. 

The  incidents  of  the  regatta  continued  to  afford  amusement 
from  the  hors  (Tceuvres  to  the  dessert.  At  the  fish  Olive  sprang 
up  suddenly  and  rushed  to  the  window.  Her  exclamation  of 
"  The  regatta  fireworks !"  drew  them  all  after  her. 

Herbert  uttered  the  long-drawn  "  Oh !"  of  the  spectators  of 
pyrotechnics.  It  was,  indeed,  an  extraordinary  set-piece,  this 
sunset,  in  affinity  with  the  fitful  tempestuous  day — a  sky  steel- 
blue  again,  with  great  broad  sulphur -edged  clouds  of  black 
smoke ;  on  the  upper  rim  of  this  smoke,  white  clouds ;  towards 
the  horizon,  over  the  inhabited  hills,  a  lovely  pale-green  light, 
and  on  the  right  of  that  a  monstrous  sulphur-cloud,  its  base 
hidden  below  the  horizon ;  the  shadow  of  this  brilliant  cloud 
darkening  to  a  purple  and  crimson  beauty  on  the  ever-stirring 
water,  and  the  cloud  itself  infiltrating  its  pores  more  and  more 
with  sulphur  and  deepening  momently  to  old  gold ;  over  the 
green  light,  patches  of  bright  gold ;  the  left  extremity  of  the 
sulphur-cloud  coming  to  meet  it  in  spots  of  smoky  red ;  every 
little  pool  of  rain  or  brine  on  the  beach  crimsoning  and  purpling 
in  responsive  radiance. 

They  returned  to  their  fish,  but  watched  from  their  seats  till 
the  beautiful  sulphur-cloud  faded  into  a  pale  bluish  blot.  Mrs. 
Wyndwood,  observing  it  all  minutely  with  her  recently  acquired 
artistic  vision,  said  she  had  never  realized  before  how  many 
editions  a  sunset  went  through ;  she  wondered  how  artists  ar- 
rested it  long  enough  to  paint  it.  Herbert  said  sunsets  were 
not  fixed  but  faked.  He  resumed  his  badinage  of  Olive  for  her 
failure  to  see  her  whole  life  defile  pictorially  before  her ;  and  she 
apologized  for  her  forgetfulness  on  the  ground  that  she  hadn't 
arrived  at  drowning  point.  A  discussion  on  memory  ensued. 
Mrs.  Wyndwood  acknowledged  possessing  a  good  verbal  memory 
— especially  for  poetry.  Herbert  said  that  he  could  only  re- 
member ideas,  so  that  he  carried  away  nothing  from  contempo- 
rary literature.  Only  the  Continentals  had  ideas ;  the  English 
were  a  wooden  race,  "  the  wooden  heads  of  Old  England,"  he 
said,  derisively  ;  he  was  glad  of  his  infusion  of  French  blood, 
there  was  no  salt  in  English  life — nothing  but  putrefying  Puri- 


454  THE    MASTER 

tanism.  Olive  said,  although  she  was  a  Celt,  she  could  remem- 
ber neither  ideas  nor  words.  Herbert  asked  what  was  her  earliest 
recollection.  After  screwing  up  her  forehead  in  earnest  effort  she 
replied,  honestly,  "  I  forget,"  and  he  cried  "  Bull !"  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood  proffered  her  own  earliest  recollection — of  gliding  in  her 
mother's  arms  in  a  gondola,  with  a  boatman  crying  Stall — and 
was  curious  to  know  Matthew's.  He  replied  mirthfully  that  he 
didn't  remember,  and  covered  his  discomposure  with  champagne. 
He  could  not  expose  to  strangers  that  memory  of  his  mother 
scolding  his  father,  shrieking,  vociferating,  offering  to  throw  up 
the  position,  threatening  to  shoot  herself.  Even  Mrs.  Wyndwood 
would  never  know  that — no  one  would  ever  really  see  the  scars 
on  his  soul.  The  thought  of  her,  now  babbling  harmlessly, 
saner  in  her  insanity  than  in  her  sanity,  came  up  like  the  skele- 
ton at  the  feast.  He  put  her  resolutely  outside  with  the  night 
and  the  wind  that  wailed  like  a  woman.  But  he  heard  them 
moaning:  "  Oh,  the  pain  of  the  world  !" 

After  dinner  they  walked  along  the  shore  towards  the  neigh- 
boring village.  It  blew  half  a  gale  now,  but  the  air  was  not 
cold  and  the  ladies  took  only  wraps.  The  quartette  looked  upon 
this  deserted  beach  as  a  private  promenade,  an  appanage  of  the 
house.  They  walked  two  and  two,  Matthew  and  Miss  Regan, 
Herbert  and  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  There  was  only  a  rim  of  orange 
all  along  the  horizon ;  the  rollers  thundered  on  the  stones, 
smashing  themselves  in  flying  spray  ;  a  fierce  undertow  kept  the 
waves  sandy  for  half  a  mile  out ;  there  was  just  light  enough  to 
distinguish  where  the  paler  green  commenced.  The  darkness 
grew  rapidly  as  they  walked ;  the  last  faint  reflection  of  sunset 
faded  on  the  gray  sea.  An  unusual  silence  possessed  them  after 
the  exuberance  of  the  evening.  They  stopped  now  and  again  to 
shake  the  little  pebbles  out  of  their  shoes.  All  was  black  when 
they  reached  the  village.  The  beach  was  full  of  wickerwork 
crab-pots,  and  the  headless  divided  forms  of  skate  and  dog-fish 
loomed  uncannily  from  the  poles  on  which  they  hung.  They 
were  the  crab-fishers'  bait.  Only  a  stray  mongrel  represented 
the  village,  which  already  slept.  The  sea  was  mournful  and 
gloomy ;  its  pitchy  blackness,  over  which  the  sky  hinged  like 
a  half-raised  gray  lid,  was  relieved  only  by  its  own  broken  lines 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  455 

of  foam,  which  sometimes  rolled  in  six  deep,  looking  exactly  like 
streaks  of  phosphorescence  on  a  dark  wall,  and  adding  weirdness 
to  the  forlorn  desolation  of  the  scene.  There  was  no  other  line 
of  light  either  on  sea  or  land ;  the  lonesome  sea  tossed  sleeplessly 
in  its  agony,  howling  and  crying. 

They  turned  back,  interchanging  companions.  During  the 
walk  Mrs.  Wyndwood  suddenly  asked  Matthew  if  his  wife  knew 
where  he  was  :  he  said,  "No  ";  sometimes  his  brother  Billy  did  ; 
Billy  lived  with  her:  his  man  forwarded  all  letters  from  his 
studio.  After  a  long  pause  he  added  that  practically  he  had 
been  separated  from  his  wife  for  years.  Eleanor  murmured 
again,  "  Poor  woman,"  and  he  was  too  shame-stricken  to  look 
her  in  the  face,  and  to  read  that  the  sympathy  was  for  him. 
They  relapsed  into  silence,  and  indeed  conversation  was  difficult. 

The  night  had  grown  wilder,  the  wind  blew  more  fiercely, 
drenching  their  faces  with  salt  spray,  whirling  them  round  and 
round  and  almost  lifting  them  off  their  feet.  But  the  clouds 
were  driven  off  and  the  star-sprinkled  heaven  was  revealed, 
majestic. 

Near  the  house  Mrs.  Wyndwood  and  Matthew  Strang  stopped 
to  admire  the  sublime  spectacle,  sheltering  themselves  from  the 
gale  in  a  niche  in  the  cliff ;  the  other  two  had  already  gone 
round  the  craggy  projection  which  hid  the  house. 

They  watched  the  mad  cavalry  charge  of  creaming  billows ; 
watched  them  break,  thundering  and  throwing  their  spray 
heavenwards  like  a  continuous  play  of  white  fountains  all  along 
the  line  of  march.  To  the  right,  beyond  the  village  whence 
they  had  come,  where  the  cliff  jutted  out  at  its  lowest  level,  a 
ghostly  fountain  leaped  again  and  again  sheer  over  the  top  of 
the  cliff  with  a  crashing  and  splashing  that  was  succeeded  by 
the  long -receding  moan  of  the  back -drawn  wave  soughing 
through  the  rattling  pebbles. 

Her  face,  flushed  with  the  passion  of  the  storm,  showed 
divinely  in  the  dim  starlight ;  beneath  her  wrap  her  bosom, 
panting  from  the  walk  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  heaved  with 
excitement ;  the  gale  had  dishevelled  her  hair.  They  scarcely 
spoke ;  the  organ-roll  of  the  sea  crashed  majestically  like  the 
bass  in  some  savage  symphony  of  the  winds. 


456  THE    MASTER 

Now  at  last  the  moon  leaped  out,  framed  in  a  weird  cloud- 
rack  ;  the  moonlight  played  on  her  loveliness  and  made  it 
wonderful. 

She  moved  slightly  forward.  "  The  cliff  is  too  damp  to  lean 
upon,"  she  murmured. 

Audaciously  he  slipped  a  trembling  arm  against  the  rock  and 
let  her  form  rest  against  that.  She  scarcely  seemed  conscious 
of  him  ;  she  was  watching  the  rampant,  seething  waters,  volley- 
ing their  white  jets  skyward  with  a  crash  of  cannon  that  out- 
roared  the  wind ;  her  scarlet  lips  were  parted  eagerly  ;  the 
dreamy  light  had  gone  from  her  eyes ;  they  flashed  fire. 

"  Oh,  I  could  dare  to-night !"  she  cried. 

The  wind  blew  her  tresses  into  his  face  ;  the  perfume  of  them 
stung  his  blood.  Her  loveliness  was  maddening  him.  So  close  ! 
so  close  !  Oh,  to  shower  mad  kisses  upon  her  lips,  her  eyes, 
her  hair !  What  did  it  matter,  there  on  that  wild  beach  alone 
with  the  elements  !  He  had  been  so  near  death ;  who  would  have 
recked  if  he  had  been  dead  now,  tossed  in  that  welter  of  waters  ? 

The  waves  broke  with  a  thousand  thunders,  the  white  foun- 
tains flew  at  the  stars ;  they  seemed  alive,  exultant,  frenzied 
with  the  ecstasy  of  glorious  living.  Oh,  for  life — simple,  sub- 
lime—  the  keen,  tingling,  savage  life  of  Vikings  and  sea- 
robbers  in  the  days  before  civilization,  in  the  full-blooded  days 
when  men  loved  and  hated  fiercely,  strenuously,  wrenching 
through  rapine  and  slaughter  the  women  they  coveted.  Ah, 
surely  he  had  some  of  their  blood  ;  it  ran  in  his  veins  like  fire ; 
he  was  of  their  race,  despite  his  dreamings.  He  was  his  father's 
son,  loving  the  storm  and  the  battle. 

The  wind  wailed  ;  it  was  like  the  cry  of  his  tortured  heart,  his 
yearning  for  happiness.  It  rose  higher  and  higher.  A  bat  flew 
between  them  and  the  moon.  Eleanor  nestled  to  him  involun- 
tarily ;  her  face  was  very  near  to  his.  It  gleamed  seductively ; 
there  was  no  abashment,  only  alluring  loveliness  ;  the  fire  in  her 
eyes  kindled  him  now  not  to  the  secondary  life  of  Art,  but  to 
the  primary  life  of  realities.  Could  she  not  hear  his  heart  beat  ? 
Yes,  surely  the  storm  of  the  elements  had  passed  into  her  blood, 
too.  Her  face  was  ardent,  ecstatic.  His  arm  held  her  tight. 
Oh,  to  stake  the  world  on  a  kiss ! 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  457 

The  moon  was  hidden  again ;  they  were  alone  in  the  mad, 
dim  night ;  the  complexities  of  Society  were  far  away.  They 
looked  at  each  other,  and  through  her  eyes  he  seemed  to  see 
heaven. 

A  star  fell  overhead.  It  drew  her  eyes  away  a  moment  to 
watch  its  fiery  curve.  He  felt  the  spell  was  broken.  The  wind 
shrieked  with  an  eldritch  cry,  like  the  mocking  threnody  of  his 
thwarted  hope.  He  had  a  shuddering  remembrance  of  Mad 
Peggy.  And  straightway  he  saw  her  weird  figure  dashing 
round  the  crag  in  the  darkness — a  shawl  over  her  head,  and  a 
lovely  face,  at  once  radiant  and  frenzied,  gleaming  from  be- 
tween its  dusky  folds.  His  heart  almost  stopped,  a  supersti- 
tious thrill  froze  his  hot  blood.  Never  to  be  happy !  Ah,  God ! 
never !  never  !  To  thirst  and  thirst,  and  nothing  ever  to  quench 
his  thirst ! 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  started  forward.  "Oh,  there  you  are, 
Olive !" 

The  figure  threw  passionate  arms  round  her.  "  Comfort  me, 
darling  ;  I  am  engaged." 

For  the  happier  Herbert  had  spoken.  And  Olive  had  listened 
shyly,  humbly,  with  tears,  full  of  an  exquisite  uplifting  emo- 
tion, akin  to  the  exaltation  of  righteousness,  at  the  thought  of 
giving  herself  to  this  man,  of  living  her  life  with  and  for 'the 
one  true  soul  in  the  world. 

They  stood  close  to  the  hoary  rim  of  the  black  welter ;  dusky 
figures,  wind-rocked  and  spray-drenched,  a  little  apart  from  each 
other,  the  shining  house  in  the  background. 

"And  when  did  you  begin  to  think  of  me — in  that  way?" 
she  faltered. 

"  I  never  thought  of  you  in  any  other.  But  that  night  when 
Matthew  arrived,  when  you  sat  nid-nodding  in  the  grandfather's 
chair,  you  maddened  me  ;  you  were  adorable  !  the  contrast  was 
exquisite.  To  think  of  you  —  a  wilful  little  misanthrope  —  to 
think  of  that  glorious,  wayward  creature  fading  away  till  she 
suited  the  chair.  Oh,  it  was  too — " 

He  broke  off.  Passion  robbed  him  of  words.  He  moved 
nearer — she  drew  back. 


458  THE    MASTER 

"  Oh,  but  will  you  still  " —  she  hesitated,  shy  of  the  word — 
"  love  me  when  I  do  suit  the  chair  ?" 

"  I  shall  always  see  you  as  you  were  then." 

She  laughed  with  a  half-sob. 

"  And  just  then,"  she  confessed  deliciously,  fluttering  even 
now  like  a  bird  in  the  net,  "  I  was  beginning  to  get  frightened 
of  you.  I  felt  you  growing  upon  me,  shadowing  the  horizon 
like  the  roc  in  the  Arabian  Nights.  And  the  pain  of  the  world 
was  outside — in  the  great  black  night — calling  to  me  in  my 
slough  of  luxury." 

"  You  witch  !    Veil  those  eyes  or  I  shall  kiss  them." 

She  retreated. 

"  And  why  were  you  frightened  of  me  ?"  he  asked,  tenderly. 

She  said,  humbly,  in  little  shy  jerks :  "  I  felt  like  in  the  sea 
this  morning — one  little  atom,  and  the  whole  world  against  me, 
and  my  own  weakness  most  of  all.  ...  I  had  prided  myself 
on  my  swimming,  and  here  was  I  being  dragged  under  .  .  .  just 
like  other  girls  ...  a  victim  to  the  same  ridiculous  pas- 
sion." 

"  You  delightful,  candid  creature  !     With  me  as  the  object  ?w 

"  Don't  be  flippant  now,  Herbert."  How  delicious  his  name 
sounded ;  it  made  amends  for  the  rebuke  !  "  You  do  under- 
stand me.  Marriage  is  a  second  birth  —  voluntary,  this  time. 
It  means  accepting  the  universe,  which  was  thrust  upon  one  un- 
asked." 

"  It  means  making  the  best  of  it." 

"  Oh,  surely  it  means  more.  It  means  passing  it  on  to  others. 
But  I  surrender.  I  cannot  live  without  you." 

"  Olive !" 

He  sprang  to  take  her,  but  she  eluded  him.  "  Look !  the 
moon  is  covered  up  again." 

"  I  only  want  to  see  your  face." 

"  Don't  talk  like  other  men,  though  I  have  fallen  like  other 
girls." 

"  No,  you  are  always  yourself,  Olive — I  have  dreamed  of  this 
moment.  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise — except  perhaps  with 
you  in  the  grandfather's  chair  and  a  poke  bonnet." 

"  Now  you  are  yourself.     This  is  such  a  conventional  ending 


THE    IDYL    CONCLUDES  459 

to  a  holiday,  we  must  preserve  what  originality  we  can."  She 
was  recovering  her  spirits. 

"  A  conventional  ending  !  Why,  it's  a  most  romantic  incon- 
gruous match.  It  beats  the  comedy.  I  shall  burn  it." 

"  No,  let's  produce  it — it  wouldn't  cost  much." 

"I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  Olive,"  he  said,  with  a  quiver  in 
his  voice.  "  I  have  nothing." 

"  Oh  !     When  you  have  my  heart !" 

"  My  queen  of  girls  !     But  what  of  your  relatives  ?" 

A  gleam  of  fun  passed  across  her  wet  face.  She  had  her 
droll  look  of  mischief. 

"  You  are  all  of  them.  I  was  of  age  long  ago — I  am  awfully 
old,  you  know — you  take  me  with  your  eyes  open — " 

"  I  can't ;  yours  dazzle  me." 

"  That  '11  do  for  the  comedy,"  she  laughed,  gleefully.  "  Still, 
if  you  do  want  me,  there  are  only  you  and  I  to  consider." 

"  Only  we  two,"  he  murmured. 

"We  two,"  she  repeated,  and  her  eyes  were  suffused  with 
tender  moisture. 

There  was  a  delicious  silence.  He  tried  to  take  her  hand. 
This  time  she  abandoned  it  to  him ;  a  wave  of  moral  emotion 
lifted  her  to  the  stars. 

The  wind  wailed,  the  black  sea  crashed  white  at  their  feet, 
its  whirling  brine  blinded  their  eyes  as  with  salt  tears. 

"  Isn't  it  curious  ?"  she  said,  as  they  moved  back  a  little, 
hand  in  hand. 

"What,  dearest?" 

"That  you  and  I  should  be  made  happier  by  our  common 
perception  of  the  unhappiness  of  life  ?" 

"  Queer  girl !"  he  thought.     But  he  only  squeezed  her  hand. 

"  The  Catechism  is  right,"  she  went  on,  thoughtfully,  proceed- 
ing to  misquote  it.  "  The  waves  are  too  strong.  It's  no  use 
fighting  against  your  sex  or  your  station.  Do  your  duty  in 
that  state  of  life  in  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  call  you.  But 
I  would  have  that  text  taught  to  the  rich  exclusively,  not  to  the 
poor.  The  poor  should  be  encouraged  to  ascend ;  the  rich 
should  be  taught  contentment.  Else  their  strength  for  good  is 
wasted  fruitlessly."  And  the  electric  current  of  love  generated 


460  THE    MASTER 

by  those  close-pressed  palms  flashed  to  her  soul  the  mission  of 
a  life  of  noble  work  hand  in  hand. 

Herbert  scarcely  heard  her.  The  glow  of  her  lovely  face,  the 
flashes  of  feeling  that  passed  over  it,  the  tears  that  glistened  on 
her  eyelashes — these  absorbed  his  senses.  Her  generalizations 
were  only  a  vague,  exquisite  music.  He  lifted  her  hand  and 
held  it  passionately  to  his  lips.  She  murmured,  beseechingly  : 

"  You  will  never  disappoint  me,  Herbert  ?" 

"  My  darling !"  And  he  strove  to  draw  her  nearer  and  press 
his  first  kiss  upon  those  bewitching  lips. 

"  Oh !  there's  a  star  falling,"  she  cried,  and  slipped  from  his 
hold,  a  beautiful  Diana,  virgin  as  the  white  spray  and  tameless 
as  the  night. 

She  had  disappointed  Herbert.  He  was  puzzled.  But  as 
she  disappeared  round  the  cliff  in  quest  of  the  others,  a  smile 
of  triumphant  content  curled  round  his  boyish  lips. 

"That's  the  last  touch  of  piquancy,"  he  murmured,  as  he 
chased  her  round  the  crag. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD 


Two  days  after  Herbert's  engagement,  Matthew  Strang  left 
Devonshire  on  the  plea  of  a  death  in  the  family. 

A  letter  from  Billy  had  indeed  brought  the  news  that  Rosina's 
father  was  no  more.  Matthew  had  never  thought  untenderly  of 
old  Coble ;  the  mountain  of  a  man  had  acted  generously  after 
his  lights,  and  now  that  his  genial  roar  had  passed  into  the 
eternal  silence,  the  pathos  of  death  softened  his  son-in-law  tow- 
ards his  memory  and  towards  the  bereaved  daughter.  Never- 
theless, Matthew's  plea  was  only  a  pretext.  He  had  no  intention 
of  intruding  upon  Rosina.  After  her  recent  reception  of  him  he 
had  no  reason  to  suppose  a  visit  would  be  welcome.  The  letter 
from  Billy  had  included  no  message  from  her,  except  a  request, 
superfluously  and  irritatingly  formal,  that  she  should  be  allowed 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  461 

to  give  house-room  to  her  aunt  Clara,  who  had  gone  to  live  with 
old  Coble  when  his  daughter  married.  His  reply  to  Billy  con- 
tained warmly  sympathetic  reference  to  the  loss  of  old  Coble, 
and  expressed  his  joy  at  the  prospect  of  receiving  Miss  Coble. 

His  real  reason  for  fleeing  from  Devonshire  was  his  discovery 
of  his  real  feeling  towards  Mrs.  Wyndwood.  When  the  frenzy 
of  the  stormy  night  had  merged  in  the  sober  reflections  of  the 
mild  morning,  he  shuddered  to  think  how  near  he  had  gone  to 
forfeiting  her  respect,  to  insulting  her  by  the  revelation  of  a 
dishonorable  passion.  To  continue  in  her  daily  society  would 
have  been  too  great  a  torment,  aggravated,  as  it  must  have  been, 
by  the  sight  of  Herbert's  happiness.  Perhaps  the  rude  reminder 
of  his  domestic  shackles  contained  in  Billy's  letter  strengthened 
his  resolve  to  tear  himself  away.  Courtesy  compelled  him  to 
leave  behind  him  an  invitation  to  the  ladies  to  take  tea  one  day 
at  his  studio,  which  neither  had  ever  seen.  How  could  he  snap 
abruptly  the  links  he  had  forged  with  this  delightful  twain  ? 

He  threw  himself  with  ardor  into  work,  trying  to  soothe  his 
pain  by  expressing  it  in  Art,  as  a  woman  sheds  it  away  in  tears. 
He  toiled  at  a  symbolic  picture  to  illustrate  Rossetti's  sonnet, 
"  Love's  Fatality." 

"  Love  shackled  with  Vain-longing,  hand  to  hand." 

He  put  the  figures  in  a  vague  landscape,  but  did  not  study 
his  models  in  the  open,  for  he  now  had  a  desire  to  produce  that 
fatness  of  effect  suggested  by  a  concentrated  studio  light  in- 
stead of  the  dry  flatness  which  the  open  air  always  diffused. 
He  no  longer  pinned  himself  to  technical  theories,  finding  by 
experience  that  he  only  invented  them  afterwards  to  justify  the 
procedure  his  instinct  dictated  for  any  particular  picture.  But 
his  progress  with  "  Love's  Fatality  "  was  slow  and  unsatisfac- 
tory. He  was  feeling  about,  as  it  were,  for  a  new  manner  wor- 
thy of  her  who  inspired  it.  He  wrote  her  once  telling  her  that 
it  was  on  the  easel,  and  reminding  her  and  Miss  Regan  of  their 
promise  to  visit  him  on  their  return  from  Devonshire,  and  he 
had  from  her  an  answer — elegantly  indited  on  dainty,  crested 
paper,  delicately  scented — which  he  held  often  to  his  lips  with 
a  rankling,  gnawing  pain  of  unsatisfied  and  unspoken  desire. 


462  THE    MASTER 

She  wrote  that  she  was  very  anxious  to  see  the  picture,  and 
also  to  be  back  in  town,  for  she  was  weary  of  the  country  with 
its  monotony,  its  lack  of  the  complex  thrill  of  civilization.  Not 
that  the  town  held  much  to  enthral  her.  Fortunately  Olive  had 
consented  to  the  Paris  project ;  the  girl  did  not  want  to  marry 
before  next  summer,  and  rather  hailed  the  idea  of  a  farewell 
quasi-bachelor  Bohemian  period  of  art  and  liberty.  What  she, 
Eleanor,  would  do  when  she  lost  Olive  Heaven  only  knew.  And 
then  came  the  wail  of  world-weariness  which  his  ear  had  caught 
already  in  the  first  stages  of  their  acquaintanceship.  He  inter- 
preted it  in  the  light  of  his  own  blank  unrest,  but  to  imagine 
her  hungering  for  him  as  he  hungered  for  her  was  impossible 
to  his  reverent  passion.  That  she  admired  and  liked  him  he 
could  not  doubt ;  and  in  one  or  two  instants  of  mutual  electric- 
ity he  had  dared  to  think  that  Herbert  was  right,  and  that  she 
loved  him.  But  his  diffidence  could  never  cherish  the  hope  for 
more  than  a  few  seconds ;  and  even  if  she  indeed  loved  him,  he 
felt  that  her  delicacy,  her  finer,  more  ethereal  ethical  sense  would 
preserve  her  from  the  wistful  images  that  tortured  him.  It  was 
the  memory  of  her  unhappy  marriage  to  which  her  sadness 
must  be  due ;  no  doubt,  too,  her  life  lacked  love,  though  she 
might  not  be  consciously  aware  of  it. 

When  she  at  last  came  to  see  the  picture,  he  was  startled  to 
find  her  alone,  and  the  bearer  of  a  message  of  apology  from 
Miss  Regan.  His  studio  being,  so  to  speak,  a  place  of  business, 
he  was  not  unused  to  receive  ladies  in  connection  with  commis- 
sions, but  his  poor,  agonized  heart — that  had  so  ached  to  see 
her  again — pulsed  furiously  with  mad  hope  as  her  stately  fig- 
ure, clad  in  widow -like  black  that  set  off  her  beauty  in  novel 
lights,  moved  slowly  about  the  great  studio,  admiring  pictures 
which  he  would  have  hidden  from  her  in  the  days  when  he 
thought  of  her  more  as  a  spiritual  critic  than  a  woman.  Now, 
even  though  she  stood  before  him  making  remarks,  he  was  too 
distraught  to  catch  the  purport  of  her  criticisms.  He  followed 
her  about  in  a  haze,  a  dream,  speaking,  replying,  and  feeling  all 
the  while  as  if  it  was  all  part  of  a  game  of  make-believe,  and  in 
a  moment  the  thin  pretence  would  be  thrown  off  and  she  would 
be  in  his  arms.  But  the  moments  passed,  the  haze  cleared,  and 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  463 

he  realized  that  he  was  entertaining  a  fashionable,  self-pos- 
sessed lady,  wrapped  up  in  artistic  interest,  with  no  apparent 
relation  to  the  woman  who  had  flushed  with  the  passion  of  the 
sea  and  the  winds  on  that  night  of  stress  and  storm. 

His  mind  flew  back  from  her  bodily  presence  to  picture  her 
leaning  against  his  arm,  and  the  memoried  vision  seemed  in- 
credible. She  was  unapproachably  demure  in  her  black -silk 
gown.  Over  the  shoulders  she  wore  a  short  black -velvet  cape 
embroidered  in  jet,  with  a  beaded  fringe,  finished  off  with  a 
filmy  black  lace  reaching  just  below  the  waist.  When  she 
threw  it  back,  Matt  saw  the  great  puff  sleeves  of  her  gown  and 
a  turned-down  collar  that  combined  with  them  to  give  an  old- 
world  feeling.  At  her  throat  was  a  soft  ruche  of  black  chiffon. 
And  from  this  monotone  of  black  the  blond  skin  of  the  throat 
and  face  rose  dazzling,  crowned  by  a  small  pink  bonnet,  of  sham- 
rock shape,  entirely  composed  of  roses,  with  a  lace-and-jet  but- 
terfly fluttering  over  it.  Now  and  then  she  pointed  out  some- 
thing with  a  long  black-gloved  forefinger.  Her  left  hand  held 
a  dainty  little  book,  that  looked — like  herself — poetry.  How 
far  away  she  seemed,  standing  thus  at  his  side !  He  was  in  a 
fever  of  chills  and  heats. 

She  stopped  longest  before  his  unfinished  picture  of  "  Love's 
Fatality."  He  heard  her  approving  his  conception  of 

"Love  shackled  with  Vain-longing,  hand  to  hand," 

but,  even  as  her  ravishing  lips  spoke  golden  words  of  praise, 
his  vain  longing  to  kiss  them  admonished  him  how  feebly  his 
symbols  expressed  the  heart-sickness  he  was  feeling.  The  long- 
er he  heard  the  music  of  her  lauding  voice,  the  more  those  gray 
eyes  kindled  below  the  pink  bonnet  in  adoration  of  his  genius, 
the  more  his  disgust  with  the  picture  grew ;  and  when  a  chance 
word  of  hers  reminded  him  that  the  subject  had  already  been 
treated  in  the  last  Academy,  he  determined  to  destroy  his  work 
the  moment  she  was  gone,  though  he  had  always  been  aware  of 
the  little  skied  picture  which  had  drawn  Miss  Regan's  eccentric 
attention.  The  last  vestiges  of  his  hope  of  her  love  died  as  she 
discussed  "  Love's  Fatality,"  with  apparent  unconsciousness  that 
to  him,  at  least,  the  picture  stood  for  something  personal ;  her 


464  THE    MASTER 

aloofness  was  exacerbating.  The  heats  of  his  fever  died,*  only 
the  chill  was  left. 

He  gave  her  some  tea,  and  became  gradually  aware  that  she 
was  abnormally  loquacious  and  vivacious.  He  remembered  to 
ask  after  Miss  Regan's  health,  and  was  told  that  Olive  was 
bright  and  gay,  with  only  rare  reactions  of  pessimism.  Mrs. 
Wyndwood  wondered  dolefully  again  what  she  would  do  when 
Olive  was  married.  His  heart,  bolder  than  his  lips,  beat  "  Come 
to  me.  Come  to  me."  But  she  did  not  seem  to  catch  its  ap- 
peal, though  his  eyes  spoke,  too.  In  his  embarrassment  he 
turned  over  the  pages  of  the  dainty  little  book  she  had  laid 
down  on  the  table.  He  started  at  finding  it  a  new  volume 
of  Harold  Lavender's  poems,  and  when  on  the  fly-leaf  he  read 
"  To  Eleanor  "  his  face  twitched  noticeably. 

"  Ah,  that  was  the  book  Mr.  Lavender  wrote  about  in  the 
letter  that  Primitiva  lost,"  she  said,  quickly.  "  It's  just  out 
to-day." 

"  I  see  he  calls  you  Eleanor,"  he  observed,  tonelessly. 

"  Yes,"  she  responded,  smiling,  "  that  is  a  poetic  license. 
Besides,  it  is  a  screen.  There  are  so  many  Eleanors." 

That  sounded  true  to  his  bitter  mood.  There  were  indeed  so 
many  Eleanors,  all  in  contradiction.  He  kept  turning  over  the 
leaves  in  silent  jealousy. 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  very  pretty  one  you  have  there,"  she  said, 
lightly.  "  It  might  suggest  a  subject  to  you.  Read  it  aloud,  it's 
only  ten  lines." 

Fuming  inwardly  at  the  suggestion  that  the  dapper  poet  of 
sugar-plums  and  the  hero  of  the  nougat,  whom  he  mentally 
classed  with  Roy  as  an  interloper,  could  afford  him  any  inspira- 
tion, and  further  incensed  by  the  command  to  read  the  fellow's 
verses,  he  gabbled  through  the  little  poem,  which  extended  over 
two  deckle-edged,  rough,  creamy  pages. 

"ROSALIND  READING  AN  OLD  ROMANCE 

"I  watch  her  dainty  rose-bud  mouth, 
That  trembles  with  the  exquisite 
And  wondrous  tide  that  steals  from  it 
Of  song,  redolent  of  the  South ; 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  465 

While  o'er  her  April  countenance, 
The  music  of  the  quaint  romance, 
The  sweeter  for  a  sense  of  pain, 
Sends  sun  and  shade;  and  lost  in  dream, 
Her  sweet  eyes  softly  flash  and  gleam 
With  golden  smiles  and  diamond  rain." 

"  I  hope  she  read  it  better  than  that,"  laughed  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood,  mirthfully. 

"  Well,  she  couldn't  make  the  fourth  line  scan  anyhow,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  you  mean  'redolent.'    That's  another  poetic  license." 

"  And  Rosalind  seems  to  be  another,"  he  said,  surlily. 

"Oh  no,  I'm  not  Rosalind.  I  haven't  a  dainty  rose-bud 
mouth.  Mine  is  a  full-grown  rose  at  least."  And  her  laugh 
showed  the  white  teeth  gleaming  against  the  red  lips. 

Her  arch  laughing  face  so  close  to  his  across  the  little  tea- 
table  tantalized  him  intolerably. 

"  It  is  a  red,  red  rose,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely,  half  rising 
and  bending  over  as  if  to  survey  it. 

"Beware  of  the  thorn  !"  she  laughed,  nervously,  drawing  back 
involuntarily.  "  And  to  think  that  but  for  the  coast-guard  who 
found  Primitiva's  letter,"  she  rattled  on  hastily,  "  some  other 
fair  lady  would  have  had  the  honor  of  the  dedication." 

"  One  of  the  other  Eleanors,  perhaps,"  he  said,  sulkily,  sink- 
ing back  into  his  chair. 

"  Poor  Primitiva !"  she  cried,  in  unabated  hilariousness  and 
intensified  volubility.  "  Oh,  she's  been  such  fun.  You  know 
Olive. has  brought  her  to  London.  She  begged  her  away  from 
her  father,  to  the  excessive  joy  of  Primitiva,  who  has  become 
her  devoted  slave.  The  other  night  Olive  took  her  to  the 
theatre  with  us  and  would  have  her  in  the  box.  She  had  been 
wrought  up  to  a  wild  excitement,  and  when  she  got  inside  the 
theatre  and  looked  round  at  the  festive  company  she  drew  a 
deep  breath  of  rapture.  She  said  she  liked  it  very  much.  Long 
before  the  orchestra  struck  up,  Olive  discovered  that  Primitiva 
imagined  she  was  already  in  complete  enjoyment  of  the  play, 
and  that  to  sit  in  the  theatre  was  all  in  all.  Only  one  thing 
marred  Primitiva's  pleasure.  She  was  looking  round  furtively 

30 


460  THE    MASTER 

for  your  cousin,  and  at  last  asked  where  Mr.  Herbert  sat ;  not, 
it  transpired,  because  of  his  position  as  Olive's  fiance,  but  be- 
cause she  had  heard  us  talk  of  Herbert  as  writing  a  play,  and 
imagined  he  was  an  inseparable  adjunct  of  the  theatre.  Of 
course,  she  doesn't  know  even  now  that  there  are  more  theatres 
than  one.  When  the  overture  struck  up  she  was  surprised  and 
delighted  by  this  unexpected  addition  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
evening.  The  rising  of  the  curtain  was  the  climax  of  her  aston- 
ishment and  her  transport.  The  action  of  the  piece — a  melo- 
drama, purposely  chosen  for  her  behoof  by  our  sportive  friend, 
experimenting  upon  her  freshness — seized  her  from  the  start, 
and  kept  her  riveted.  The  fall  of  the  first  curtain,  and  the 
arrest  of  the  innocent  man  for  the  murder,  left  her  weeping 
bitterly.  *  It  isn't  real,  you  little  goose !'  Olive  said,  to  pacify 
her.  'Isn't  it?'  Primitiva  replied,  opening  her  brimming  trust- 
ful eyes  to  their  widest.  She  gave  a  little  sobbing  laugh. 
1  And  I  thought  they  was  all  alive  !'  Then  she  rose  to  go,  and 
was  astonished  to  hear  that  there  was  more.  Alas  !  it  would  have 
been  better  had  she  gone.  When  the  hero's  wife,  visiting  the 
hero  in  prison,  kissed  him,  Primitiva  inquired  if  the  actor  and 
actress  were  really  married,  and  learning  that  they  were  not, 
was  too  disgusted  to  sympathize  any  further  with  their  mis- 
fortunes. It  revolted  her,"  concluded  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  taking 
up  her  teacup  with  an  air  of  preparing  for  the  resumption  of 
sips,  "  that  a  man  who  was  not  a  woman's  husband  should  kiss 
her."  And  her  face  gleamed  more  tantalizing  than  ever  under 
the  roses  of  her  bonnet. 

His  fingers  dented  the  teaspoon  they  fidgeted  with  ;  it  seemed 
intolerable  that  his  life  should  be  spoiled  by  acceptance  of  the 
moral  stand-point  of  this  simple  creature.  He  with  his  artistic 
agonies  and  his  complex  sorrows  and  his  high  imaginings  to  be 
squeezed  into  the  same  moral  moulds  as  Primitiva !  He  refused 
to  see  the  humor  of  her.  The  girl  had  no  more  interest  for  him 
than  that  irritating  Roy.  It  was  maddening  to  have  Eleanor 
sitting  there  in  cold  blood,  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  an 
irreproachable  widow  in  black,  talking  abstractly  of  kisses. 
Then  the  tense  string  of  expectation  snapped ;  the  apathy  that 
he  felt  in  the  presence  of  Rosina  invaded  him — he  stirred  his 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  467 

tea  listlessly,  awaiting  the  moment  of  her  departure.  As  she 
talked  on,  loquacious  to  the  end,  prattling  of  Erie-Smith  and 
Beethoven,  and  Swinburne,  his  apathy  quickened  into  impa- 
tience ;  he  longed  for  her  to  be  gone.  His  hidden  fingers 
played  a  tattoo  on  the  side  of  his  chair.  She  bade  him  good- 
bye at  last;  she  would  not  see  him  again  for  many  months, 
unless  he  came  to  Paris. 

"  I  always  run  over  to  do  the  Salon,"  he  answered,  indiffer- 
ently. 

When  he  had  seen  her,  stately  and  stiff,  to  her  carriage,  and 
his  studio-door  had  shut  him  in  again,  he  ripped  up  the  canvas 
with  his  old  sailor's  knife  in  a  paroxysm  of  fury.  His  eye 
caught  the  silver  regatta  cup  standing  proudly  upon  the  piano. 
He  felt  like  dashing  it  down ;  then  it  occurred  to  him  how  fine 
and  bitter  a  revenge  it  would  be  upon  her  and  humanity  at 
large  to  fill  it  with  poison  and  drain  it  to  the  dregs.  But  he 
only  threw  himself  upon  a  couch  in  a  passion  of  sobs,  such  as 
had  not  shaken  him  since  childhood.  The  great  picturesque 
room,  which  the  autumn  twilight  had  draped  in  dusk,  was  in- 
effably dreary  without  her ;  his  heart  seemed  full  of  dust,  and 
tears  were  a  blessed  relief  in  the  drought.  They  probably 
saved  him  from  ending  his  empty  life  there  and  then. 

He  rallied,  and  began  other  pictures,  but  he  could  do  nothing 
with  them.  He  refused  commissions  for  portraits,  hating  the 
imposition  of  subject,  and  fearful  of  exposing  his  restlessness  to 
a  stranger's  gaze.  The  return  of  the  world  to  town  renewed 
social  solicitations,  but  he  felt  he  was  wearing  his  heart  on  his 
sleeve,  and  declined  to  parade  it  through  drawing-rooms.  De- 
spite this  gain  of  time,  the  weeks  passed  without  any  definite 
product.  He  was  searching,  bat  he  could  not  find.  One  day 
he  would  sit  down  and  fix  in  charcoal  some  rough  suggestions 
for  a  greater  symbolic  picture  than  that  which  he  had  destroyed  ; 
but  the  next  day  he  would  be  working  up  his  recollections  of 
Devonshire  night-scenery,  trying  by  a  series  of  tentative  touches 
on  a  toned  canvas  to  evolve  the  romantic  mystery  of  those 
illumined  villages  niched  in  the  cliffs,  or  of  the  moon  making  a 
lovely  rippling  path  across  the  dark  lonely  sea,  as  Eleanor  had 
made  across  his  life ;  while  a  day  or  so  after  he  would  discard 


468  THE    MASTER 

these  thinly  painted  shadowy  night-pieces,  and,  painting  straight 
from  the  shoulder,  "  inipasto  "  his  canvas  with  brutal  blobs  of 
paint  that  at  a  distance  merged  into  the  living  flow  of  red  sunlit 
water. 

And  always  this  rankling,  gnawing  pain  of  unsatisfied  and 
unspoken  desire.  No  man  could  work  with  that  at  his  breast 
And  her  rare  letters  did  not  allay  it,  though  they  spoke  no 
word  of  love,  but  were  full  of  enthusiasm  for  the  free  student 
life  in  Paris,  the  glorious  camaraderie,  the  fun  of  dining  occasion- 
ally for  a  few  centimes  in  tiny  cremeries,  and  going  to  the  Peo- 
ple's Theatre  off  the  Boulevard  Montparnasse,  where  they  gave 
a  bonus  of  cerises  a  I'eau  de  vie  between  the  pieces.  Oh,  if  she 
had  only  been  younger,  less  staled  by  life  !  If  she  could  only 
begin  over  again.  If  she  only  had  the  energy  of  Olive,  who 
started  work  at  the  Academy  at  the  preternatural  hour  of  eight 
A.M.  But  she  had  lost  the  faculty  of  beginnings,  she  feared,  and 
she  made  but  poor  progress  in  sculpture.  That  was  the  under- 
current of  these  gay  letters,  the  characteristic  note  of  despond- 
ency. 

Rosina  held  out  no  hand  of  reconciliation.  His  only  contact 
with  her  was  through  Billy,  who  paid  him  one  visit  to  escort 
"  Aunt  Clara "  over  the  studio.  His  wife  had,  it  transpired, 
held  forth  so  copiously  and  continuously  upon  its  glories  that 
the  poor  creature  had  plucked  up  courage  to  ask  to  see  it,  and 
Rosina,  who  had  evidently  concealed  the  breach  with  her  famous 
husband,  had  besought  Billy  to  convoy  her.  And  so  one  day 
these  two  routed  out  the  sick  lion  from  the  recesses  of  his 
den. 

The  appearance  of  Miss  Clara  Coble  was  as  much  a  shock  as 
a  surprise  to  Matthew  Strang.  In  the  nine  years  or  so  since  she 
had  assiste^  at  his  wedding — an  unimportant  but  not  disagreea- 
ble personage,  tall  and  full-blooded  as  her  brother,  she  had  de- 
cayed lamentably.  She  was  now  an  ungainly  old  maid,  stoop- 
ing and  hollow-eyed,  with  crows'  feet  and  sharpened  features. 
She  had  a  nervous  twitch  of  the  eyelids,  her  head  drooped  odd- 
ly, and  her  conversation  was  at  times  inconsecutive  to  the  verge 
of  fatuity.  From  the  day  of  her  birth  to  the  day  of  his  death 
Coble  had  thought  of  her  as  his  little  sister,  and  he  never  real- 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  469 

ized  the  tragedy  of  her  spinsterhood,  of  her  starved  nature, 
though  under  his  very  eye  she  had  peaked  and  pined  in  body 
and  soul. 

But  it  leaped  to  the  painter's  eye  at  the  first  sight  of  her,  and 
her  image  remained  in  his  brain,  infinitely  pathetic. 

The  ugliness  that  in  earlier  days  would  have  averted  his  eyes 
in  artistic  disgust,  drew  him  now  in  human  pity.  He  grew  ten- 
derer to  Rosina  at  the  thought  that  she  was  harboring  this  wreck 
of  femininity.  It  rejoiced  him  to  think  how  much  "  Aunt  Clara  " 
was  enjoying  this  visit  to  his  grandeurs;  he  listened  with  pleased 
tolerance  to  her  artless  babble — in  her  best  days  she  had  always 
had  something  of  her  brother's  big  simplicity — as  she  told  tale 
after  tale  out  of  school,  repeating  the  colossal  things  her  poor 
brother  had  said  about  his  son-in-law's  genius  and  wealth,  re- 
counting how  Coble  had  thus  become  the  indirect  hero  of  the 
Temperance  Bar,  and  unconsciously  revealing — what  was  more 
surprising  to  the  painter — the  pride  with  which  Rosina  had  al- 
ways written  home  (and  still  spoke  to  her  aunt)  about  her  hus- 
band and  his  fashionable  friends  and  successes.  And  poor  Miss 
Coble  expanded  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  great  man,  which  she 
had  never  hoped  to  breathe.  Her  cadaverous  cheek  took  a  flush, 
she  held  her  head  straighter  on  her  shoulders.  He  felt  that, 
after  all,  it  was  worth  while  being  famous  if  he  could  give  such 
pleasure  to  simple  souls  by  his  mere  proximity.  The  fame  he 
had  sold  his  body  and  soul  for  was  a  joyless  possession  ;  happy 
for  him  if  it  could  yet  give  joy  to  others. 

Billy  told  him  that  Ruth  Hailey  was  in  Paris  at  the  Hotel 
Windsor  with  Mrs.  Verder,  preparatory  to  the  long  Antipodean 
tour,  and  suggested  that  he  might  call  upon  her  when  he  went 
over  to  see  the  Salon  if  she  was  still  there.  Matthew  wrote 
down  the  address,  but  said  he  didn't  think  he  should  go  over 
that  year.  Billy  looked  disappointed  ;  he  had  been  about  to 
suggest  accompanying  his  brother.  Life  at  Camden  Town,  he 
intimated  fretfully,  had  resumed  its  dead-alive  routine,  and  he 
glanced  towards  Miss  Coble  as  if  to  imply  that  her  advent  had 
not  brightened  the  domestic  table. 

When  the  visitors  left,  Matthew  put  them  into  a  cab  and  drove 
with  them  a  little  way  to  purchase  presents  for  the  children. 


470  THE    MASTER 

There  was  a  doll  for  Clara  and  a  box  of  animals  for  Davie.  To 
Rosina  he  did  not  venture  to  send  even  a  message.  At  a  word 
from  her  he  would  have  gone  to  her,  but  he  had  no  stomach  to 
cope  with  her  tantrums. 

This  new  reminder  of  home  left  him  more  depressed  than 
before.  It  was  impossible  to  concentrate  himself  upon  his 
work,  even  in  the  presence  of  models.  They  were  an  unprofita- 
ble expense,  and  he  dismissed  them  and  brooded  over  the  ruins 
of  his  life.  Without  Eleanor  Art  was  impossible,  he  felt.  True 
Art  he  could  not  produce  without  her  inspiration,  and  false  Art 
was  falseness  to  her  and  a  vile  slavery. 

Insomnia  dogged  his  nights,  and  when  he  slept  it  was  but  to 
suffer  under  harassing  dreams  fantastically  compounded  of  his 
early  struggles.  These  dreams  never  touched  his  later  life  ; 
many  of  them  dealt  oppressively  with  the  bird-shop,  and  he  had 
often  to  clean  endless  shades  with  chamois  leather,  smashing 
one  after  the  other  under  the  rebuking  but  agonizingly  unintel- 
ligible "  Pop  !  Pop  !  Pop  !"  of  "  Ole  Hey,"  though  he  felt  sure 
Tommy,  the  young  Micmac  errand-boy,  had  cracked  them  be- 
forehand. And  what  added  to  the  sleeper's  agony  was  that 
these  breakages  would  have  to  be  made  good  to  the  Deacon 
from  his  scanty  wage,  or,  worse,  he  would  be  discharged  and 
unable  to  send  the  monthly  subsidy  to  Cobequid  Village.  The 
anguish  and  anxiety  were  quite  as  harassing  as  though  the  trou- 
bles were  real. 

He  made  one  desperate  excursion  into  Society — it  was  the  de- 
lightful dinner-party  of  a  gifted  fellow-artist  whose  cultured  and 
beautiful  wife  had  always  seemed  to  him  the  ideal  hostess.  And 
a  pretty  and  guileless  girl,  full  of  enthusiasm  for  Art  and  Nature 
and  the  life  that  was  opening  out  before  her,  fell  to  his  escort- 
ing arm  ;  she  was  visibly  overpowered  by  her  luck  and  charm- 
ingly deferential;  at  first  his  responsive  smile  was  bitter,  but  his 
mood  lightened  under  her  engaging  freshness  and  the  cham- 
pagne he  imbibed  recklessly. 

But  the  next  morning's  reaction,  aggravated  by  the  headache 
of  indigestion,  plunged  him  into  more  tenebrous  glooms.  But 
for  the  unkindly  fates  he  might  have  sat  with  such  a  wife,  host 
and  hostess  of  such  a  gathering.  He  pictured  Eleanor  receiv- 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  4*71 

ing  his  guests,  and  in  his  factitious  happiness  he  gathered  the 
poor  and  the  despised  to  his  hearth.  The  images  of  suicide 
resurged.  He  saw  it  on  the  bills  : — "  Suicide  of  a  Popular 
Painter."  Why  not  ?  The  position  was  hopeless  ;  were  it  not 
best  to  throw  it  up  ?  How  the  world  would  stare  !  No  one 
would  understand  the  reason.  Rosina  would  still  remain  un- 
known, irrelevant  to  the  situation.  And  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  in  the  bitter  luxury  of  woe. 

But  he  did  not  commit  suicide,  and  all  that  the  world,  or  that 
minute  portion  of  it  which  talks  Art,  wondered  at,  was  why  Mat- 
thew Strang  was  unrepresented  when  the  Academy  opened  in 
May.  It  leaked  out  that  he  had  been  ill,  and  there  were  sym- 
pathetic paragraphs  which  were  not  altogether  misinformed,  for 
these  sleepless  or  dream-tortured  nights  had  brought  on  nervous 
prostration  and  acute  headaches.  That  ancient  blood-poisoning, 
too,  had  left  its  traces  in  his  system,  and  when  he  was  worried 
and  overwrought  his  body  had  to  pay  again  the  penalty  of  un- 
forgiven  physical  error. 

Again,  as  in  those  far-off  days,  he  thought  of  a  sea-voyage  to 
his  native  village ;  it  dwindled  down  to  crossing  the  Channel. 
As  the  opening  of  the  Salon  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  he  felt 
more  and  more  strongly  that  he  must  not  miss  the  Exhibition. 
It  was  part  of  a  painter's  education.  There  was  no  need  to  see 
Eleanor  Wyndwood  ;  by  remaining  on  the  fashionable  side  of 
the  river  the  chances  were  he  would  not  even  come  across  her 
casually  in  the  few  days  of  his  stay.  No,  there  was  nothing  to 
apprehend.  And  besides,  it  began  to  be  increasingly  borne  in 
upon  him  that  it  was  his  duty  to  look  tip  Ruth  Hailey  ;  she  had 
called  upon  him  at  Camden  Town,  and  etiquette  demanded  that 
he  should  return  the  call.  What  had  she  and  Rosina  talked 
about?  he  wondered  dully.  If  he  did  not  go  soon,  she  might 
be  off  to  Australia,  and  the  opportunity  of  seeing  his  ancient 
playmate  would  probably  recur  nevermore. 

And  so  a  bright  May  morning  saw  him  arrive  in  the  capital 
of  Art,  breakfast  hastily  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  and — drive  straight 
to  the  Latin  Quarter.  Other  climes,  other  thoughts,  and  the 
gayety  of  the  Boulevards,  with  their  green  trees  and  many-col- 
ored kiosks,  had  begun  to  steal  into  his  spirit,  and  his  gloomy 


472  THE    MASTER 

apprehension  of  danger  to  dissipate  in  the  crisp  sunny  air. 
Why  should  he  not  see  Eleanor  Wyndwood  ? 

And  then  he  discovered  that  he  did  not  know  her  address, 
that  she  wrote  from  the  English  Ladies'  Art  Club ;  he  hunted 
out  the  place,  but  the  concierge  told  him  she  was  not  there,  and 
gave  him  the  address  of  the  Academy  most  of  the  ladies  at- 
tended, but  this  was  the  hour  of  dejeuner,  and  monsieur  would 
probably  not  find  them  there  till  the  afternoon.  He  grew  down- 
cast again,  and,  dismissing  the  cab,  he  sauntered  on  foot  tow- 
ards the  Academy,  trying  to  kill  time.  He  dropped  into  a 
tiny  restaurant  close  by  to  get  a  cup  of  coffee  ;  it  was  decorated 
by  studies  from  the  nude,  evidently  accepted  in  payment  for 
dinners ;  and  the  ceiling  had  a  central  decoration  that  reminded 
him  of  his  own  crude  workmanship  in  the  sitting-room  of  that 
hotel  in  New  Brunswick.  He  sat  down  at  a  little  table  facing 
the  only  lady  customer,  a  dashing  Frenchwoman,  the  warm 
coloring  of  whose  handsome  model's  face  showed  between  a 
great  black-plumed  hat  and  a  light-blue  bow,  and  who  paused  be- 
tween her  spoonfuls  of  apple-stew  to  chant  joyously,  "  Coucou, 
coucou,  fal  la,  la,  la,  la."  A  decadent  poet  with  a  leonine  name 
sipped  absinthe,  a  spectacled  Dane  held  forth  intermittently  on 
the  bad  faith  of  England  towards  Denmark  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  century,  a  Scotch  painter  discoursed  on  fly-fishing, 
and  exhibited  a  box  of  trout-flies,  and  one  or  another  paused 
from  time  to  time  to  hum,  "  Coucou,  coucou,  fal  la,  la,  la,  la," 
in  sympathy  with  the  gay  refrain.  Hens  fluttered  and  clucked 
about  the  two  sunlit  tables,  and  goat  wandered  around,  willing 
to  eat. 

Matthew  Strang  fed  the  hens  and  was  taken  by  the  humors 
of  the  quarter,  into  which  he  had  scarcely  penetrated  before, 
knowing  mainly  the  other  side  of  the  water.  Perceiving  him 
looking  at  her  pictures,  the  stout  smiling  proprietress,  whose 
homely  face,  minus  her  characteristic  smile,  flared  in  paint  on 
a  wall,  protruding  from  a  scarlet-striped  bodice,  asked  him  in 
very  loud  tones  if  he  would  like  to  see  her  collection,  and 
straightway  haled  him  up-stairs  to  her  salon,  which  was  hung 
thickly  with  meritorious  pictures,  upon  whose  beauties  she  held 
a  running  comment,  astonishing  Matthew  by  the  intelligence  of 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  4*73 

her  criticisms.  "  This  represents  a  hawthorn,  monsieur,  which 
blossoms  in  the  spring.  This  was  done  by  a  Dane  who  is  dead. 
The  King  of  Denmark  offered  him  a  commission,  but  he  would 
not  work  for  him,  because  he  was  a  revolutionary — in  painting 
only,  you  understand,  an  Impressionist.  That  is  a  copy  of  the 
one  in  the  Luxembourg.  I  paid  two  hundred  francs  to  have  it 
made,  because  I  love  the  original  so.  Oh  yes,  it  is  a  very  good 
copy.  My  landlord  offered  me  four  hundred  for  it,  but  I  prefer 
to  live  in  a  little  apartment,  surrounded  by  my  pictures.  As 
you  say,  I  am  an  amateur  of  pictures.  There  are  more  here  in 
my  bedroom,"  and  she  ushered  him  in,  apologizing  for  the  bed 
not  being  made.  Then  she  told  him  her  history.  She  was  a 
widow  with  an  only  son,  who  was  beau  gar$on.  Ah,  she  was 
beautiful  herself  when  she  had  twenty  years.  Her  son  was  to 
be  an  artist.  Matthew  Strang  feelingly  hoped  the  boy  would 
become  a  great  artist;  inwardly  he  wondered  wistfully  why  he 
himself  had  not  been  blessed  with  an  art-loving  mother.  And 
then  in  a  curious  flash  of  retrospective  insight  he  recognized 
for  the  first  time  the  essential  artistic  elements  in  his  mother's 
character,  stifled  by  a  narrow  creed — her  craving  for  the  life  of 
gay  cities,  her  Pagan  anger  at  Abner  Preep's  bow-legs  !  What  a 
pity  she  had  not  been  born  in  this  freer  artistic  atmosphere, 
which  indeed  her  ancestors  must  have  breathed,  though  their 
blood  had  been  crossed  with  German  and  Scotch,  as  if  to 
produce  his  own  contradictory  temperament.  In  London,  he 
thought,  artistic  connoisseurship  was  the  last  thing  one  would 
look  for  in  small  shopkeepers.  In  a  softer  mood  he  repaired 
to  the  Academy,  which  was  entered  through  a  pair  of  large 
folding  doors  that  gave  upon  a  stone  corridor.  He  passed 
through  this  passage  and  came  out  under  a  sloping  porch,  with 
broken  trellis- work  at  one  side  and  an  untidy  tree.  At  the  top 
of  a  flight  of  stone  steps  that  descended  thence,  he  was  stopped 
by  a  block  of  young  American  fellows  in  soft  felt  hats,  who  mo- 
tioned him  to  stand  still,  and,  to  his  astonishment  and  some- 
what melancholy  amusement,  he  found  himself  part  of  a  group 
about  to  be  photographed  by  a  pretty  young  lady  student  in  the 
sunny,  dusty  court-yard  below. 

The  group  she  had  posed  stretched  all  down  the  steps,  and 


474  THE    MASTER 

consisted  mainly  of  models  —  male  and  female.  There  were 
Italian  women,  dusky  and  smiling,  some  bareheaded,  some 
hooded,  and  a  few  pressing  infants — literal  olive-branches — to 
their  bosoms.  There  was  an  Italian  girl  of  fourteen  with  a 
mustache,  who  was  a  flare  of  color  in  her  green  velvet  apron 
and  gorgeous  trailing  head-dress.  There  were  Frenchwomen 
with  coquettish  straw  hats,  and  a  child  in  a  Tarn  o'  Shanter ; 
there  was  a  Corsican  in  a  slouch-hat,  with  coal-black  hair  and  a 
velvet  jacket  to  match,  and  a  little  Spanish  boy  in  a  white  hat. 
Thrown  in  as  by  way  of  artistic  contrast  with  all  this  efflores- 
cence of  youth  was  a  doddering,  pathetic  old  man  with  a  spread- 
ing gray  beard  and  flowing  gray  locks ;  and  there  were  young 
lady  students  of  divers  nationalities — Polish,  Greek,  Dutch,  and 
American — curiously  interspersed  in  the  motley  group  which 
stretched  right  down  the  stone  steps  between  the  stone  balus- 
trades that  terminated  in  stone  urns  spouting  disorderly  twigs. 
Behind  the  pretty  photographer  were  the  terra-cotta  walls  of 
the  sculpture  atelier,  which,  high  beyond  her  head,  were  re- 
placed by  long,  green-glazed  windows,  into  which  a  pink  lilac- 
bush,  tiptoeing,  tried  to  peep ;  around  her  were  stools,  dumb- 
bells, damaged  busts,  a  headless  terra-cotta  angel  with  gaping 
trunk  and  iron  stump,  nursing  a  squash-faced  cherub,  and  dis- 
mantled packing-cases  swarming  with  sportive  black  kittens; 
and  facing  her  a  great  blackened  stone  head  of  Medusa  stared 
from  a  red-brick  pedestal,  awful  with  spiders'  webs  across  the 
mouth  and  athwart  the  hollow  orbits  and  in  the  snaky  hair  cov- 
ered with  green  moss ;  and  towering  over  her  head  and  domi- 
nating the  court-yard  stood  a  colossal  classical  statue,  tarnished 
and  mutilated,  representing  a  huge  helmeted  hero,  broken-nosed 
and  bleared,  sustaining  a  heroine,  as  armless  but  not  so  beauti- 
ful as  the  Venus  de  Milo,  doing  a  backward  fall.  But  the  sun 
shone  on  the  dusty  litter  and  the  mess  and  the  lumber,  and  the 
lilac-bush  blossomed  beautifully,  and  over  all  was  the  joy  of 
youth  and  Art  and  the  gayety  of  the  spring.  Matthew  Strang 
felt  an  ancient  thrill  pass  through  his  sluggish  veins.  To  be 
young  and  to  paint — what  happiness !  His  eyes  moistened  in 
sympathy  with  the  scene.  The  models  were  redolent  of  Art — 
the  very  children  breathed  Art,  the  babes  sucked  it  in.  Art 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  475 

was  a  republic,  and  everybody  was  equal  in  it — the  doughtiest 
professor  and  the  meanest  model,  the  richest  amateur  and  the 
penurious  youth  starving  himself  to  be  there.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  the  world  but  Art  —  it  was  the  essence  of  existence. 
There  were  people  who  lived  for  other  things,  but  they  did 
not  count.  Oh,  the  free  brave  life  !  He  was  glad  to  be  photo- 
graphed as  part  and  parcel  of  all  this  fresh  aspiration  ;  it  re- 
vivified him  ;  he  had  a  superstitious  sense  that  it  was  symbolic. 

The  group  scattered,  dismissed  by  the  "  Merci "  of  the  pretty 
photographer  ;  and  Matthew,  descending  the  steps,  asked  her  if 
Mrs.  Wyndwood  worked  in  her  atelier.  She  did  not  know,  but 
she  guessed  from  his  description  it  must  be  the  aristocratic- 
looking  lady  who  had  dropped  in  once  or  twice  in  Miss  Regan's 
company.  Miss  Regan  came  regularly  every  morning  at  eight 
o'clock,  but  not  at  all  in  the  afternoon,  when  she  worked  at 
home.  Miss  Regan's  own  studio  was  in  an  Impasse  about  ten 
minutes  away  ;  probably  her  friend  lived  with  her.  Heartily 
thanking  his  informant,  he  betook  himself  thither.  He  found 
the  Impasse  in  a  prosaic,  grimy  street,  amid  which  the  charm- 
ing, if  battered  bass-relief  of  Venus  with  Cupids  over  its  en- 
trance, struck  an  unexpected  note  of  poetry,  which  was  intensi- 
fied by  the  little  Ionic  portico  with  classic  bronze  figures  between 
its  pillars  that  faced  him  as  he  passed  through  the  corridor. 
Leafy  trees  and  trellised  plants  added  rusticity  to  the  poetry  of 
the  sunny,  silent,  deserted  court-yard,  so  curiously  sequestered 
amid  the  surrounding  squalor.  The  windows  of  many  studios 
gave  upon  it,  and  the  backs  of  canvases  showed  from  the  glass 
annexes  for  plein  air  study.  But  as  he  passed  under  the  pretty, 
natural  porch  of  embowering  foliage  that  led  to  the  door  of  the 
studio  he  sought,  his  heart  beat  as  nervously  at  the  thought  of 
again  facing  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Wyndwood  as  when,  in  his  young 
days,  he  had  first  saluted  the  magnificent  uncle  whose  name  he 
bore.  He  had  an  inward  shrinking :  was  it  wise  to  expose 
himself  to  the  perturbation  of  another  interview  with  this  cold, 
stately  creature,  the  image  of  whom,  passing  graciously  to  her 
carriage,  was  still  vivid  to  him  ?  But  he  could  not  go  back 
now.  He  knocked  at  the  door. 

Eleanor  opened  the  door — a  radiant,  adorable  apparition  in  a 


476  THE    MASTER 

big  white  clay-smeared  blouse  with  a  huge  serviceable  pocket. 
He  had  never  imagined  her  thus ;  he  was  as  taken  aback  by  her 
appearance  as  she  by  his  presence.  He  stared  at  her  in  silencey 
as  she  stood  there  under  the  overarching  greenery,  with  gold 
flecks  of  sunlight  on  her  hair.  But  both-recovered  themselves 
in  a  moment;  the  sight  of  her  in  this  homely  artistic  costume 
knocked  her  off  the  pedestal  of  fashion  and  propriety  on  which 
his  mental  vision  had  posed  her ;  she  became  part  of  that  brave 
young  democracy  of  Art  he  had  just  left;  and  there  was  a 
charming  camaraderie  in  the  gay  laugh  with  which,  withdraw- 
ing her  long  white  hands  beyond  reach  of  his  proffered  glove, 
and  exhibiting  them  piquantly  clay-covered,  she  cried,  "  Can't 
shake." 

The  seriousness  of  the  imagined  meeting  vanished  in  a  twin- 
kling. He  looked  at  her  dancing  eyes,  the  sweet,  red  mouth 
smiling  with  a  gleam  of  lustrous  teeth  :  he  had  an  audacious 
inspiration. 

"  Well,  then  there's  nothing  for  it  but — "  he  said,  smiling 
back,  and  finished  the  sentence  by  kissing  her.  Instantly  her 
eyelids  drooped,  half-closing;  her  lips  responded  passionately 
to  his. 

They  were  withdrawn  in  a  moment  before  he  could  realize 
what  he  had  done,  or  the  wonderful  transformation  in  their  re- 
lations. 

"  In  the  open  air !"  she  cried,  horrified,  and  ran  within.  He 
followed  her,  closing  the  door;  his  heart  beat  tumultuously 
now.  Nothing  could  undo  that  moment.  A  wilderness  of  talk 
could  not  have  advanced  matters  so  far. 

Through  the  tall  glass  roof  of  the  airy  studio  the  sun 
streamed  in  rays  of  dusty  gold,  dappling  the  imaginative  clay 
models  in  their  wet  wrappings,  the  busts,  fountains,  serpents, 
rock-work,  witches,  that  variegated  the  shelves,  and  lent  an  air 
of  fantasy  and  poetry,  extruding  the  tedious  commonplace  of 
plebeian  existence,  and  harmonizing  with  the  joyous  aloofness 
of  the  scene  in  the  court-yard  its  sense  of  existence  in  and  for 
itself,  by  souls  attuned  to  Art  and  dedicate  to  loveliness. 

Mrs.  Wyndwood  stood,  saucily  beautiful,  leaning  against  a 
shelf,  with  one  hand  in  the  pocket  of  her  blouse,  and  rubbing 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  477 

the  clay  of  the  other  against  the  sides  of  what  looked  like  a  tin 
baking-dish  filled  with  plaster-pie.  How  harmonious  was  that 
tilt  to  her  nose !  He  had  never  noticed  before  how  delightfully 
it  turned  up.  She  smiled  roguishly. 

"  Imprudent  creature  !     Suppose  Olive  had  been  in  !" 

The  great  moment  was  taken  in  a  livelier  key  than  he  had 
ever  dreamed. 

"  But  you  were  out,"  he  said,  trying  to  respond  to  her  light- 
ness, though  he  trembled  in  every  limb.  He  made  a  movement 
towards  her.  She  shrank  back  against  the  shelf. 

"  Don't !"  she  cried,  gayly,  "  you'll  spoil  your  gloves.'* 

He  dabbled  them  magnificently  in  a  heap  of  plaster  of  Paris 
and  advanced  nearer. 

"Now  you'll  spoil  my  blouse,"  she  cried,  moving  hastily 
away  to  dip  her  hands  in  a  bowl  of  water. 

He  tore  off  the  gloves  and  threw  them  on  the  floor. 

"  Is  that  a  challenge  ?"  she  laughed,  drying  her  hands,  but  the 
laughter  died  in  a  gurgle.  He  had  stopped  her  breath.  She 
did  not  struggle,  but  lay  in  his  arms  silent  like  a  tired,  lovely 
child — at  rest,  at  last,  her  happy  face  pressed  to  his.  "  Oh,  my 
dear,"  she  murmured,  cooingly.  "  And  all  those  months  you 
never  kissed  me  once  !" 

"  I  did  not  dare,"  he  answered,  with  a  pang  of  remorse. 
"  You  gave  me  no  hint  that  you — that  you  cared  for  me." 

A  beautiful  blush  blossomed  and  faded  on  her  face.  "  But 
you  should  have  understood.  I  needed  the  touch."  And  her 
face  nestled  closer  against  his. 

Even  now  it  seemed  dream-like  that  this  marvellous  happiness 
should  be  his ;  that  this  fastidious  complex  creature  of  fashion- 
able London  whom  he  had  dared  to  love  should  be  pillowing 
her  perfumed  head  on  the  shoulder  of  the  man  who  in  his 
laborious  and  wretched  youth  had  wheeled  a  bird  -  stuffer's 
barrow  through  Whitechapel.  His  life  lay  behind  him  like  a 
steep,  arduous  hill  rising  to  this  celestial  cloudland. 

"  If  I  had  only  known,"  he  said,  brokenly.  "  Oh,  how  I  loved 
you  that  night  of  the  storm  !" 

"  And  how  I  adored  you,"  she  confessed  deliciously.  "  You 
were  so  brave,  so  manly  that  day.  You  saved  Olive's  life,  you 


478  THE    MASTER 

saved  her  for  me  and  for  Herbert.  Ob,  how  noble  !  We  none 
of  us  thanked  you,  it  was  all  laughter  and  badinage,  but  you 
were  my  hero,  my  true,  great,  strong,  simple  man." 

And  her  lips  sought  his  humbly,  her  eyes  swimming  in  tears. 

"  Let  me  kiss  you  now  for  your  brave  deed.  Ah,  how  I  was 
afraid  when  Herbert,  looking  through  his  glass,  cried  out  that 
something  had  happened  to  Olive,  that  you  had  swum  back  for 
her.  I  felt  my  life  growing  dark.  Suppose  I  had  lost  you 
both." 

And  her  mobile  face  grew  tragic  at  the  thought.  He  held  her 
tighter. 

"  Eleanor !  It  is  so  good  to  be  with  you  !"  he  articulated  in  a 
hoarse  whisper  that  was  half  a  sob. 

Her  tragic  features  lightened  to  a  winsome,  reproachful  smile. 

"And  when  I  came  to  your  studio,  Matthew,  you  gave  me  .  .  . 
tea !" 

"  If  I  had  only  known,  if  I  had  only  dared  !" 

"  You  must  dare  with  a  woman." 

Her  arms  had  been  resting  on  his  shoulders — she  threw  them 
around  his  neck. 

"  Oh,  my  Master — now  and  ever." 

Conscience  slipped  into  paradise.     He  unwound  her  arms. 

"You  forget  my — secret.'1 

She  moved  her  chin  bewitchingly  upward. 

"  You  have  sealed  my  lips." 

He  kissed  them  again.  "And  you  can  love  me  despite  that  ? 
I  am  not  worthy  of  such  a  sacrifice." 

Her  bosom  heaved  beneath  the  blouse,  her  eyes  kindled  with 
the  old  spiritual  fire,  her  voice  rang  passionately. 

"  You  are  worthy  !  Life  has  been  too  cruel  to  you — you  need 
a  woman's  heart  to  cherish  you,  you  shall  not  be  starved  of  the 
sunshine,  you  shall  work  in  happiness.  Ah  !  that  is  what  I  have 
learned  here  in  this  happy,  liberal  air.  Art  is  the  child  of  joy- 
ful labor — it  is  the  sunshine  of  life.  You  are  sad,  miserable, 
and  it  harrows  my  heart.  Oh,  if  I  can  bring  joy  and  peace  to 
the  soul  of  a  man  like  you,  if  I  can  indeed  inspire  your  Art, 
my  wretched  life  will  not  have  been  wasted.  You  have  told 
me  that  I  could,  tell  it  me  again." 


ELEANOR    WFNDWOOD  479 

"  You,  and  you  only,  can  bring  me  joy  and  peace." 

She  caressed  his  hair  with  a  tender,  protective  hand.  "  My 
Matthew  !"  she  murmured. 

"And  you,  Eleanor,"  he  faltered,  tremulously;  "I  shall  not 
make  you  unhappy  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  happier  than  I  have  ever  been,"  and  her  arms 
stole  round  him  again  in  simple  trust. 

"Ah,  I  was  forgetting.  Life  owes  you  happiness,  too.  If  I 
dared  to  think  I  could  bring  you  forgetfulness  of  the  past !" 

She  shuddered.  Her  arms  unlaced  themselves  of  their  own 
accord.  She  dropped  into  a  chair  before  the  table  and  laid 
them  across  the  moulding-dish,  and  buried  her  head  in  her 
hands.  He  stood  by  helpless,  torn  by  emotions,  waiting  till  the 
flood  of  bitter  memories  should  have  spent  itself,  watching 
her  shoulders  quivering,  and  the  sunlight  lying  on  her  hair  like 
a  consecration. 

"  Oh,  Douglas  !"  she  was  moaning.  "  Did  I  do  you  wrong  ? 
Did  I  do  you  wrong?  But  I  meant  the  best;  I  always  meant 
the  best,  God  knows.  And  you  cannot  chide  me  now  you  are 
dead  and  cold,  and  it  is  all  so  long  ago." 

He  shivered  nervously.  Truly  women  were  incomprehensi- 
ble, he  thought.  No  man  could  follow  the  leaps  and  turns  of 
their  emotions.  They  were  a  higher,  more  ethereal  order  of 
being.  But  he  reverenced  her  for  her  loyalty  to  the  unworthy 
dead,  her  punctilious  self-torture,  even  while  he  envied  the  man 
who  had  been  privileged  to  call  her  "  wife." 

He  touched  her  hair  reverently — there  where  the  sunshine 
rested. 

"  Don't  cry,  dear  Eleanor." 

A  great  burst  of  sobbing  shook  her.  "  Oh,  life  is  so  diffi- 
cult !"  He  bent  down  beside  her,  ineffably  pitiful. 

"  We  are  going  to  make  it  easier  for  one  another,"  he  said, 
gently.  His  hair  touched  hers.  She  turned  her  tear-flecked 
face,  and  their  lips  met.  "  We  are  going  to  begin  over  again," 
he  murmured.  She  stifled  her  sobs  like  a  soothed  child,  and 
sprang  up  with  a  smile  struggling  through  rain-clouds. 

"  Yes,  with  you  I  can  begin  over  again,  Master,"  and  she 
looked  into  his  face  with  her  na'ive,  beseeching  trustfulness. 


480  THE    MASTER 

"  This  is  a  new  life  already,"  he  said,  touching  her  blouse. 
She  gave  a  laugh  of  childish  joy. 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  This  is  a  new  life — the  past  is  dead — this  is  my 
neophyte's  robe.  Ah,  it  changes  one,  this  Paris,  does  it  not  ? 
I  am  an  artist,  and  you  are  my  Master.  It  is  you  who  have 
awakened  me  to  Art !  Oh,  I  knew  this  would  happen.  That 
wonderful  old  woman  !  She's  a  fortune-teller  in  Bethnal  Green 
— the  Duchess  of  Portsdown  gave  me  her  address — and  after 
you  were  so  cold  to  me  when  I  came  to  your  studio  in  London, 
I  went  to  see  her.  Such  a  queer,  wrinkled  hag,  and  such  a 
dingy,  wretched  room,  up  such  a  dirty  flight  of  stairs — oh,  I 
was  afraid  !  But  she  was  marvellous  !  She  knew  I  was  a  widow 
— that  I  had  been  married  unhappily — that  I  was  a  fashionable 
lady — though  I  went  in  my  oldest  clothes,  and  hid  my  rings  in 
my  purse  for  fear  of  their  being  stolen.  Oh  !  by-the-way,  where 
have  I  put  them?"  He  found  them  and  she  slipped  them  on. 
"And  she  said  I  should  love  again  and  be  loved.  You  should 
have  seen  her  wicked  old  eyes  as  she  spoke  of  love — they  were 
like  live  coals.  And  then  she  predicted  that  I  should  marry 
again  and  lead  a  long  and  happy  life  with  a  dark  man,  distin- 
guished and  rich,  who  should  inspire  me  to  a  new  faith.  Isn't 
it  marvellous  ?"  She  took  his  hand  and  smoothed  the  wrist  ca- 
ressingly. 

"  It  is  you  who  have  inspired  me  to  a  new  faith,"  he  answered, 
tremulously.  "  It  is  you  who  have  awakened  me  to  Art.  Do 
you  know  what  happened  to  me  this  morning  when  I  went  to 
seek  you  out  ?  I,  too,  was  reborn." 

He  told  her  the  auspicious  incident — how  he  had  been  photo- 
graphed as  part  of  the  fresh  young  art-life. 

She  clapped  her  jewelled  hands. 

"  It  is  providential — foreordained.     We  are  to  be  happy." 

"  Happy  !"  He  shivered  with  sudden  foreboding.  "  Another 
prophetess  declared  I  was  never  to  be  happy,"  he  said,  sadly. 
"  To  thirst,  and  to  thirst,  and  never  to  quench  my  thirst !" 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  superstitious  nonsense  !"  she  cried,  vehe- 
mently. "  You  must  be  happy  ;  you  shall  be  happy  ;  the  world 
must  not  lose  your  Art ;  /  will  save  it." 

Her  face  was  glorified. 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  481 

"  But  the  cost  to  yourself,"  he  faltered. 

"  I  will  pay  the  price.  You  love  me.  For  me  to  ruin  your 
life — that  would  be  siri." 

She  drew  his  head  to  her  bosom  and  smoothed  back  the  curly 
hair  from  his  forehead. 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,"  she  murmured. 

He  gulped  back  the  lump  in  his  throat.  "  No,  this  is  not 
sin.  You  have  redeemed  me ;  I  never  felt  so  at  peace  with  all 
things,"  he  said,  in  low,  religious  tones.  "  Oh,  we  will  shame 
the  world — we  will  live  high  and  true.  Our  happiness  shall 
radiate  to  all  that  sorrows  and  suffers.  Our  home  shall  be  the 
home  of  Art.  It  shall  stand  open  to  all  the  young  artists 
striving  faithfully  in  poverty — it  shall  be  a  centre  of  bless- 
ing. Suffering  has  made  me  morose,  now  I  feel  at  one  with  my 
kind,  longing  to  do  my  truest  work.  Oh,  God  bless  you,  my 
dear." 

A  startled  look  of  alarm  had  come  into  her  face.  She  loosed 
her  embrace  of  him. 

"  But,  Matt !     We  cannot  have  a  home." 

He  had  a  chill  of  apprehension,  which  even  the  sweetness  of 
that  first  clipping  of  his  name  could  not  counteract. 

"  But  we  love  each  other  !" 

She  waved  her  hands  agitatedly.  "  The  world  would  spurn 
me—" 

"  We  will  spurn  the  world." 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  not  thinking  !  Who  would  come  to  the 
house  ?  How  is  it  to  be  a  centre  of  blessing  ?" 

"  We  will  win  the  world's  respect.  What !  You  and  I ! 
Are  we  not  strong  enough  ?  You,  with  your  noble  past — I, 
who  come  from  nothing  and  have  won  you" 

"  You  talk  like  a  dreamer,  a  poet,  and  I  love  you  for  it.  But 
you  do  not  know  the  world — how  it  ignores  the  realities  of 
things." 

"  Oh,  I  know  the  canting  hypocrisy  that  puts  its  faith  in 
shows,  and  honors  loveless  marriage.  I  will  teach  it  to  respect 
a  home  of  love,  and  the  work  that  is  its  fruit.  You  are  right, 
happiness  is  the  mother  of  Art.  Oh,  how  I  shall  work  now,  my 
dear !" 

31 


482  THE    MASTER 

"You  may  overtop  Raphael;  you  will  never  be  a  Royal 
Academician." 

"  What  has  rny  private  life  to  do  with  Art  ?" 

"  Nothing  with  Art,  but  everything  with  English  Art.  You 
will  lose  your  R.A." 

"  I  shall  gain  you." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Why  not  gain  both  ?" 

"  Ah,  but  you  say  it  is  impossible !" 

"  I  do  not  say  so.  What  need  is  there  to  wear  our  hearts 
upon  our  sleeves  ?"  She  touched  his  sleeve  now,  insinuating 
caressing  fingers.  "  Darling,  don't  you  see  how  hard  it  would  be 
for  me  to  bear — I  am  not  a  man.  The  worst  of  the  scorn  would 
be  for  me.  Society  is  very  hard  upon  those  who  will  not  be  un- 
conventional in  secret.  I  have  not  your  courage  and  strength. 
You  will  not  shame  me." 

He  weakened. 

"  Oh,  I  am  thoughtless,"  he  said,  and  stood  miserable,  uncon- 
scious of  the  caressing  fingers. 

Then  his  brow  lightened. 

"  Nobody  knows  I'm  married.  If  we  came  back  and  set  up 
house  together,  people  would  think  we  had  been  married 
abroad." 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  face  with  a  desperate  gesture. 
"  Oh,  but  I  could  not  bear  Olive  to  know." 

His  heart  leaped.     "  Has  Herbert  told  her  I'm  married  ?" 

"  No,  she  doesn't  know." 

"  He  is  a  fine  fellow." 

"  But  she  would  be  sure  to  learn  it  one  day — it  would  leak 
out." 

"  Then  she  would  keep  the  secret." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  You  don't  know  Olive,"  she  said 
from  between  her  palms.  "  She  is  hard  on  women.  I  would 
have  sat  to  you  ages  ago,  only  I  was  afraid  of  her  sneers.  I 
wouldn't  have  her  know  for  worlds.  I  used  to  think  her  sex- 

88.?' 

"  But  now  that  she  is  to  be  married — " 

"  She  will  be  more  conventional  than  ever." 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  483 

He  tossed  back  his  hair,  impatiently.  "  Then  we  must  dis- 
pense with  Olive*" 

For  a  long  time  she  did  not  reply.  He  thought  his  harshness 
towards  her  friend  had  set  her  crying  again.  He  gently  forced 
her  hands  from  her  face.  It  was  flushed  and  pain-stricken. 

"  Forgive  me.     I  have  hurt  you,"  he  said,  in  contrition. 

"  No,  you  do  not  understand.  And  Olive  has  been  so  good 
to  me.  She  takes  charge  of  all  my  affairs — "  She  hesitated. 
"  I  don't  even  know  what  my  income  is,  or  " — with  a  pathetic 
engaging  smile — "  whether  I  have  an  income  at  all.  And  I'm 
afraid  I  spend  a  great  deal." 

He  straightened  his  shoulders.  "  I  am  very  glad  of  that.  I 
will  work  for  you.  I  can  wring  gold  from  the  world."  Rapid 
calculations  flashed  through  his  mind — already  he  regretted  his 
last  year's  inactivity,  the  destruction  of  his  picture. 

She  was  blushing  adorably.  "  No,  I  could  not  take  anything 
from  you  ...  if  we  lived  apart.  No,  no." 

"  Not  from  me?  Oh,  Eleanor.  Then  we  must  make  our  home 
together." 

"  But  don't  I  tell  you  that  is  impossible  ?"  she  said,  almost 
pettishly,  on  the  brink  of  tears.  "  The  world  would  get  to 
know  the  truth.  There  is  that  Ruth  Hailey  you  spoke  of,  who 
knows  your  brother,  and  who  through  her  connection  with  Linda 
Verder  gets  brought  into  contact  with  all  sorts  of  people.  And 
your  wife  would  hear  of  it,  too.  Unscrupulous  persons  would 
egg  her  on  to  move.  There  would  be  blackmailing,  everything 
sordid  and  horrible."  She  shuddered  violently.  .  .  .  "  Oh,  you 
do  not  know  the  world — you  have  lived  with  your  eyes  shut, 
fixed  on  inward  visions." 

He  opened  them  now,  startled  to  find  himself  lectured  for 
want  of  worldliness'by  this  ethereal  creature.  She  dissipated 
his  uneasy  bewilderment  by  a  swift  transition,  her  face  dimpled 
itself  with  reassuring  smiles.  She  pulled  the  little  curly  lock 
at  his  forehead  with  a  fascinating  tug. 

"  Don't  be  such  a  hot-headed  Quixote,  dear.  There  is  time 
enough  to  plan  out  the  future.  Circumstances  may  change — " 
Her  face  saddened.  "  The  poor  creature  may  be  taken  .  .  .  and 
your  idea  may  seem  more  plausible  when  I  have  got  used  to 


484  THE    MASTER 

it — you  come  with  a  rush  and  a  crash — like  those  waves  that 
night."  She  smiled  wistfully.  "  And  I  am  on,ly  a  woman,  and 
timid.  Can't  you  see  I  have  been  frightened  to  death  all  this 
last  half-hour?" 

"  Frightened  of  me  ?" 

"  No,"  with  a  pathetic  smile.  "  Frightened  of  Olive.  Twenty 
times  I  thought  I  caught  her  footsteps." 

"  What  if  she  does  come  !  She  won't  be  surprised  to  see  me 
here." 

"  No,  but  I  have  a  plan.  It  will  be  safest  if  she  doesn't  know 
you're  in  Paris  at  all.  You  must  leave  me  at  once." 

His  heart  sank.     "  But  when  do  I  see  you  ?" 

"  Next  Sunday  evening." 

"  A  whole  week  ?"     The  sunlight  seemed  gone. 

"  On  Sunday  morning  Olive  goes  to  Brussels  for  a  few  days — 
she's  only  waiting  to  finish  that  statuette  of  Fate,  isn't  it  weird  ? 
All  those  things  there  are  Olive's  handiwork ;  how  clever  she  is  ! 
I  only  do  the  menial  work  of  pouring  in  the  plaster.  It  saves 
money,  because — " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  interrupted,  impatiently.  "  And  on  Sunday 
evening  ?" 

"  You  will  call  for  me  here — say  about  seven — you  will  take  me 
to  dinner,  somewhere  quiet  in  this  great  free  Paris."  She  made 
a  great  circle  with  her  arms,  as  if  enjoying  the  elbow-room. 
"  And  then — "  she  smiled  intoxicatingly,  "  then  we  can  talk 
over  the  future."  Her  eyes  looked  heavenly  promise.  He  caught 
her  in  his  arms.  This  time  she  struggled  away. 

"  No,  no !  She  may  be  back  at  any  moment.  I  hear  foot- 
steps. You  must  go." 

She  pushed  him  towards  the  door. 

"Mayn't  I  write?" 

"  No,  Olive  would  see  the  letter." 

The  footsteps  passed  by. 

He  looked  back  in  reluctant  farewell,  as  he  fumbled  at  the 
door-handle.  She  was  close  behind  him. 

She  opened  her  arms,  and  his  head  was  on  her  breast  again. 
"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  she  murmured,  "  it  is  hard  to  wait." 

Then  she  pushed  him  outside,  her  face  grown  spiritual  again 


ELEANOR    WYNDWOOD  485 

in  its  anxiety,  and  she  slammed  the  door,  and  he  reeled  like  a 
drunken  man.  * 

Her  last  look  haunted  him — soulful,  alluring,  intoxicating.  He 
was  almost  sobbing  with  happiness.  Heaven  had  been  kind  to 
him  at  last.  The  balmy  air  of  the  court-yard  fanned  his  brow. 
He  walked  on  aimlessly,  in  a  beatific  dream,  past  the  beautiful 
Ionic  portico,  through  the  corridor,  into  the  street,  no  longer 
grimy,  and  so  on  to  the  Boulevards. 

How  happy  the  world  was  !  How  the  sunshine  streamed  with 
its  dancing  motes  !  How  gay  the  kiosks  with  their  dainty  posters 
and  the  piquant  designs  of  great  caricaturists  laughing  from  the 
front  pages  of  the  illustrated  journals  !  How  light-hearted  those 
bourgeois  drinking  red  wine  at  the  al  fresco  tables !  What  a 
jolly,  bulbous-nosed  old  cabman  that  was  who  hailed  him,  not 
knowing  he  had  quicksilver  in  his  veins,  and  must  needs  give 
his  limbs  to  lively  motion.  He  sauntered  on  at  random,  buoyant, 
treading  on  sunbeams,  a  song  at  his  heart,  breathing  in  the  sense 
of  the  spacious,  airy  city  that  sparkled  in  the  spring  sunshine, 
mother  of  nimble  spirits ;  he  crossed  the  river,  glittering  in  a 
long  sweep,  with  Notre  Dame  rising  on  its  island  in  picturesque 
antiquity ;  the  book-stalls  on  the  quays  thrilled  him  with  a  re- 
membrance of  the  joys  of  reading ;  he  strode  on  humming  a 
merry  tune,  the  bustle  of  traffic  was  a  musical  accompaniment  to 
it ;  he  stopped  at  a  great  leafy  square,  alive  with  pedestrians,  to 
watch  the  limpid  water  leaping  from  a  beautiful  fountain  ;  around 
him  were  the  seductive  programmes  of  theatres,  eloquent  of 
artistic  acting,  of  fine  comedy,  of  poetic  tragedy.  He  strolled 
along,  absorbing  noble  buildings,  and  churches,  and  splendid 
public  monuments.  How  fair  life  was,  how  marvellously  com- 
pacted !  Gladness  was  at  the  heart  of  all  things. 

The  city  passed  into  his  soul  as  never  before ;  its  radiant 
message  of  elegance,  proportion,  style,  sanity,  unity,  lucidity, 
exquisite  sensibility  to  the  material,  balanced  by  an  aesthetic 
delight  in  ideas,  and  the  spirit  of  gayety  all  over  ;  henceforth, 
thanks  to  Eleanor,  he  would  be  of  it,  following  Art  for  the  joy 
of  Art,  out  of  the  happiness  of  the  soul,  sun -clear,  without 
stagnant  vapors  of  discontent,  those  fits  of  spleen  bred  of  foggy, 
uncouth  London ;  he  would  l^e  fixed  at  last,  swinging  steadily 


486  THE    MASTER 

on  a  pivot  of  happiness,  a  lover  of  life  and  a  praiser  thereof. 
All  its  sweetness  had  been  diverted  from  him — it  had  passed  to 
others.  Now  at  last  he  would  be  self-centred.  He  rambled  on, 
he  crossed  the  Pont  Passy,  and  saw  the  old  city  rising  quaint 
and  steep  in  wooded  terraces.  Oh,  love  and  life  !  Oh,  life  and 
love !  Why  had  people  besmirched  the  Creation  with  soilures 
of  cynicism,  plaguing  the  air  with  pessimistic  laments,  graceless 
grunts  of  swine  nosing  garbage  ? 

What  good  times  he  had  had  himself,  he  who  had  won  fame 
and  gold  while  still  young !  And  how  ungraciously  he  had 
accepted  these  gifts  of  the  gods,  mewling  and  whining  like  a 
sulky  child.  Surely  he  deserved  that  hell  allotted  in  Dante  for 
those  who  had  wilfully  lived  in  sadness.  The  gracious  romance 
of  life — that  was  what  his  Art  should  henceforth  interpret.  He 
began  to  dream  beautiful  masterpieces,  and  they  reminded  him 
that  he  had  come  to  see  the  Salon.  He  retraced  his  steps 
towards  the  Champs  Elysees,  watching  the  endless  procession  of 
elegant  equipages  rolling  steadily  to  and  from  the  Bois,  with 
their  panorama  of  luxurious  women.  He  entered  the  Salon  ;  the 
pictures  delighted  him,  the  crowd  enraptured  him,  a  young  girl's 
face  stirred  him  to  a  mood  of  paternal  benediction ;  he  met  Ed- 
ward Cornpepper,  A.R.A.,  there,  and  felt  the  little  man  was  his 
dearest  friend.  Cornpepper  introduced  him  to  his  newly-ac- 
quired wife,  who  said  the  Exhibition  was  indecent. 

"  You  are  right,  my  dear,  there  isn't  a  decent  picture  here," 
Cornpepper  chuckled,  grimacing  to  adjust  his  monocle,  and  feel- 
ing his  round  beard.  "  Ichabod  !  The  glory  is  departed  from 
Paris.  The  only  chaps  who  can  paint  nowadays  are  the  Neo- 
Teutonic  school.  The  Frenchmen  are  played  out — they  have 
even  lost  their  taste.  They  bought  a  picture  of  mine  last  year, 
you  remember.  I  palmed  off  the  rottenest  thing  I'd  ever  done 
on  'em.  It's  in  the  Luxembourg — you  go  and  see  it,  old  man, 
and  you  tell  me  if  I'm  not  right.  Now,  mind  you  do  !  Ta,  ta, 
old  fellow.  Sorry  you're  not  in  the  Academy  this  year — but  it's 
a  good  advertisement  for  you.  I  think  I  shall  be  ill  myself  next 
year.  But  we  mustn't  talk  shop.  Good-bye,  old  man.  Oh,  by- 
the-way,  I  hear  your  cousin's  engaged  to  an  heiress.  It's  true, 
is  it  ?  Lucky  beggar,  that  Herbert !  Better  than  painting,  eh  ? 


RUTH    HAILEY  487 

Ha  !  ha !  ha !  But  I  knew  he'd  never  do  anything.  Didn't  he 
win  the  Gold  Medal,  eh  ?  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  Well,  aii  revoir.  Don't 
forget  the  Luxembourg.  You  don't  want  to  wait  till  I'm  dead 
and  in  the  Louvre,  what  ?  Thanks  for  a  pleasant  chat,  and  wish 
you  better." 

Matthew  shook  his  hand  for  the  third  time  with  unabated 
affection.  What  a  clever  fellow  Cornpepper  was,  and  what  a 
pretty  wife  he  had  got ! 

He  went  to  his  hotel  to  dine.  The  court-yard  was  gay  with 
lounging,  lolling  visitors,  the  fountain  in  the  centre  leaped  and 
sparkled  with  changing  colors,  like  an  effervescence  of  the  city. 
Far  into  the  night  he  sat  out  on  the  balcony  of  his  gilt-skied, 
many  -  mirrored  bedroom,  gazing  at  the  beautiful  Boulevards 
stretching  serenely  away  in  the  moonlight  between  their  gi- 
gantic edifices. 


CHAPTER   IX 
RUTH     HAILEY 

How  he  lived  through  the  rest  of  the  week  he  never  defi- 
nitely remembered.  He  would  have  willingly  given  the  days 
away,  but,  as  they  had  to  be  filled  up  somehow,  they  left  con- 
fused recollections  of  theatres  and  ballets,  of  rencontres  with 
random  acquaintances,  of  riding  on  tiny  tram-cars  to  see  the 
Zoological  Garden  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  of  wandering  in  a 
rag-fair,  of  reading  modern  French  poetry,  of  visiting  the  ate- 
liers of  French  painters  whom  he  knew,  and  sympathizing  with 
their  grumbles  against  the  Institute  and  the  distribution  of  dec- 
orations, while  wondering  inwardly  why  these  overgrown  school- 
boys languished  and  died  for  lack  of  a  bit  of  ribbon.  What 
could  a  man  want  in  life  but  to  paint  and  to  love  ?  State  rec- 
ognition ?  Bah  !  The  artist  was  always  an  Anarchist.  He  stood 
alone,  self-centred. 

He  hobnobbed  with  students,  too,  in  his  new  sympathy  with 
youth  and  art,  and — a  distinguished  visitor — was  taken  through 
the  great  ateliers  with  their  rainbow  -  colored  dados  of  palette- 


488  THE    MASTER 

scrapings  and  the  announcements  in  every  European  language 
that  new-comers  must  pay  for  drinks.  He  gladly  accepted  a  tick- 
et for  a  students'  ball  on  the  Saturday  night ;  it  had  been  post- 
poned for  a  few  weeks  through  the  death  of  a  beloved  professor. 
He  had  heard  much  of  these  balls,  but  had  never  seen  one,  and 
he  counted  upon  it  to  while  away  that  last  intolerable  night  be- 
tween him  and  his  happiness. 

Several  times  during  the  week  he  had  thought  of  going  to  see 
Ruth  Hailey  in  accordance  with  the  duty  that  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Channel  had  seemed  so  pressing,  but  he  shrank  instinc- 
tively from  the  raking  up  of  memories  of  the  old  unhappy  days 
at  this  joyous  crisis ;  he  was  not  in  the  mood  for  extraneous 
emotion.  Nevertheless  on  the  Saturday  afternoon,  partly  for  want 
of  anything  better  to  do,  partly  to  keep  up  to  himself  the  pre- 
tence that  she  was  at  least  one  of  the  motives  that  brought  him 
to  Paris,  and  partly  to  ascertain  if  she  had  spoken  to  people  in 
England  about  his  wife,  he  set  out  to  pay  the  long-projected 
visit.  He  would  feel  how  the  ground  lay,  discover  if  she  had 
innocently  betrayed  him  to  anybody  who  might  touch  Mrs. 
Wyndwood's  circle  —  which  might  be  awkward  if  in  a  possible 
compromise  Eleanor  should  ever  decide  to  live  with  him  in  os- 
tensible marriage. 

He  had  a  dim,  unformed  idea  of  appealing  to  Ruth  for  si- 
lence, but  he  did  not  really  meditate  invoking  her  sympathies  ; 
she  was  on  the  eve  of  departing  for  the  Antipodes — was  perhaps 
already  gone. 

He  found  her  hotel — it  was  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  A  waiter 
took  up  his  name  and  forthwith  brought  back  word  that  Mad- 
emoiselle would  see  Monsieur  Strang. 

His  heart  was  throbbing  curiously  as  he  mounted  the  stairs 
and  stood  outside  her  door.  The  quick,  irregular  clack,  clack 
of  a  type-writer  responded  like  an  echo.  He  was  ushered  into 
a  large  plainly-furnished  sitting-room.  His  first  vision  was  of 
a  tall  comely  lady  in  a  grayish  gown,  writing  at  a  table  opposite 
the  door;  but  this  was  effaced  by  the  slimmer  figure  of  a  younger 
woman  approaching  from  the  right,  with  a  smile  of  welcome 
and  an  extended  hand.  A  moment  later  her  smile  had  faded, 
and  her  hand  was  on  her  heart,  soothing  its  flutter.  He  was 


RUTH    HAILEY  489 

shaken  to  his  depths ;  behind  all  the  bodily  changes  he  saw  the 
little  girl-friend  of  his  childhood ;  and,  indeed,  the  purity  of 
her  limpid,  truthful  gaze  was  undimmed. 

"  Ruth  !"  he  cried  in  alarm,  moving  forward  as  if  to  sustain  her. 

She  drew  herself  up,  rigid  and  frozen ;  then  her  face  relaxed, 
suffused  by  a  wan  smile  and  a  returning  flood  of  carmine. 
She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  How  are  you,  Mr.  Strang  ?  I  thought  it  was  Billy,  and  to 
see  you  instead  startled  me." 

As  he  took  the  little  hand  and  looked  into  her  face,  maturer 
than  its  years,  though  it  had  not  lost  its  olden  charm,  especially 
in  the  complexion,  which  was  marvellously  pure  and  soft,  reg- 
istering every  slightest  change  of  thought  and  feeling  in  dainty 
flickers  of  rose  across  its  delicate  fairness,  his  soul  was  invaded 
by  a  rush  of  tender  memories,  incongruously  jostling  in  his 
brain :  the  thrills  and  raptures  of  boyhood,  the  joys  of  coasting 
down  the  slopes,  and  snaring  rabbits  and  shooting  partridges  ; 
the  glow  of  skating ;  the  delicious  taste  of  the  home-made  cakes  ; 
the  songs  and  hymns  of  childhood,  the  firelight  casting  shadows 
on  the  dusky  walls,  while  his  mother  read  the  Bible ;  the  drone 
of  the  fusty-coated  preacher  in  the  little  wooden  meeting-house ; 
the  thwacking  of  the  dancers'  feet  in  the  barn,  the  odors  of  hay 
and  the  lowing  of  cattle ;  the  gleam  of  the  yellow-tipped  mul- 
lein by  the  wayside  and  the  smell  of  the  wild  flowers  in  the 
woods ;  the  note  of  the  whippoorwill  in  the  forest  at  twilight ; 
the  long  cranes  floating  over  the  summer  marshes ;  the  buzz  of 
fresh  young  voices  in  McTavit's  school-room.  All  these  came 
back — dear  and  desirable,  steeped  in  tears,  softened  by  distance 
to  a  pensive  beauty,  like  bawling  choruses  heard  from  afar  across 
still  water,  inextricably  interwoven  with  all  the  pieties  of  child- 
hood, the  simple  sense  of  God  and  truth  and  honor  and  righteous* 
ness, 

He  stood  holding  her  hand,  oblivious  of  the  present,  in  a 
whirling  chaos  of  ancient  images  that  melted  his  soul  to  child' 
ish  tenderness,  and  brought  back  to  it  the  child's  clear,  un- 
questioning perception  of  spiritual  ideas  which  had  grown 
shadowy  in  the  atmosphere  of  salons  and  studios  and  fashion- 
able churches,  that  stereoscopic  vision  of  the  saint  and  the  child 


490  THE    MASTER 

which  sees  the  spiritual  solid.    But  Ruth  disengaged  her  fingers 
at  last,  blushing  under  the  kindly  smile  of  the  comely  lady. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Matthew  Strang,  Linda,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Strang, 
let  me  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Verder." 

He  bowed :  "  Oh,  I  have  heard  of  Linda  Verder,"  he  said, 
smiling. 

"  And  I  have  heard  more  of  Matthew  Strang,"  she  replied, 
beamingly. 

"  That  is  scarcely  possible,"  he  murmured. 

She  laughed  with  a  bird-like  trill.  "  Oh,  I  wasn't  alluding 
merely  to  your  public  career,  though  our  sweet  Ruth  has  got- 
ten a  whole  album  full  of  newspaper-cuttings  about  that.  But 
it  is  of  you  yourself  and  your  childhood  that  I  have  heard  so 
much.  So  you  see  I  have  the  advantage  of  you.  But  you  will 
excuse  me,  I  know  ;  I  have  to  go  out.  You  needn't  bother 
about  those  letters,  dear.  We're  nearly  through  with  them." 
And  with  an  affectionate  nod  to  Ruth  and  a  beneficent  smile  to 
Matthew,  she  left  the  room.  He  was  reddening :  he  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  uncomfortable  under  Mrs.  Verder's  smiles,  which 
in  their  insinuation  of  old  sweetheartship  made  it  certain  that 
Ruth  had  never  mentioned  his  marriage  to  her  friend  even ;  to 
hear  that  the  forgotten  Ruth  had  been  following  his  career  all 
those  years  gave  him  an  odd  pathetic  shiver.  She  and  Billy — 
and  Heaven  knew  what  others — were  sunning  themselves  in  the 
mere  reflected  rays  of  that  fame  which  had  left  him  cold. 

She  stood  away  from  him,  shy  and  equally  embarrassed,  the 
blood  ebbing  and  flowing  in  the  pure,  soft  cheek. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?"  she  said  at  last. 

u  Oh,  thank  you  !"  he  replied,  and  took  a  distant  chair. 

She  sat  down  behind  her  type-writer,  facing  him.  There  was 
a  silence.  She  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"  I  was  so  sorry  to  read  you  were  ill." 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing,"  he  murmured. 

"  I  am  so  pleased  we  hadn't  left — we  are  sailing  next  Tues- 
day. It  is  so  good  of  you  to  come  and  see  me,  with  the  many 
claims  that  you  must  have  on  your  time." 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  be  reminded  of  old  times.  I  was  sorry  I 
missed  you  the  time  you  called  at  my  house,"  he  said,  awkwardly. 


RUTH    HAILEY  491 

"  I  was  very  sorry,  too." 

"But  you  know  I  work  at  my  studio,"  he  explained,  trying 
not  to  flush.  "  There  is  no  room  at  home." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  I  didn't  care  to  call  there  and  interrupt 
your  work.  Billy  showed  me  the  little  room  where  you  used  to 
work  in  the  olden  days.  I  thought  it  real  nice  of  you  to  turn  it 
into  a  study  for  him,  and  to  take  care  of  him  as  you  are  doing. 
He  sent  me  a  story  of  his.  No ;  it  wasn't  very  good,  poor  fel- 
low !"  she  added,  seeing  the  question  in  his  face.  "  Rather  too 
full  of  passionate  love-making." 

"Not  published?" 

«  No — in  manuscript.  I  returned  it  to  him  type-written.  He 
was  enraptured.  He  said  it  was  like  seeing  himself  in  print." 

"  Ah !  we  are  not  so  used  to  the  type-writer  as  you  Ameri- 
cans." 

"  It  is  coming  in  fast,  though ;  even  into  your  slow,  old  coun- 
try, if  you  consider  it  yours,"  she  added,  slyly.  "  I  am  delight- 
ed to  see  how  many  offices  the  new-fangled  machine  has  crept 
into ;  in  two  years  it  will  be  in  every  business  office." 

"  Why  delighted  ?  Have  you  or  Mrs.  Verder  shares  in  the 
patent?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  gently.  "  Don't  you  see  it  is  a  new  oc- 
cupation for  women  ?" 

He  smiled. 

"Ah,  I  remember.     That's  your  hobby." 

"  Oh,  not  hobby,  Mr.  Strang,  not  hobby.  It  is  my  life-work. 
But  I  can't  expect  you  to  sympathize  with  these  sordid,  practi- 
cal things,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  Your  life  is  devoted  to  the 
gospel  of  the  Beautiful." 

"  Oh,  but  I  do  sympathize,"  he  cried,  remorsefully.  "  I  think 
it  is  very  fine  of  you." 

She  shook  her  head,  her  smile  fading. 

"  You  don't — you  can't.  You  are  outside  the  circle  of  the 
material  worries  of  the  poor ;  or,  what  is  worse,  the  genteel. 
And  nobody  but  a  woman  can  know  the  tragic  pettiness  of  the 
life  -  struggle  for  single  girls — the  stifled  aspirations,  the  abor- 
tive longings,  the  tears  in  the  night.  Christ  would  have  under- 
stood. But  He  was  not  a  man," 


492  THE    MASTER 

He  saw  the  blur  of  emotion  veil  her  eyes  ere  she  turned  her 
head  hastily  away.  He  felt  his  own  sight  growing  dim ;  an 
understratum  of  his  consciousness  admired  the  flow  of  her  lan- 
guage, and  divined  platform  experiences.  He  had  never  before 
thought  of  her  as  clever. 

She  recovered  herself  in  a  moment,  and  resumed,  playfully  : 

"  No,  if  you  were  a  black-and-white  artist  you  would  have 
sketched  Mrs.  Verder  with  corkscrew  ringlets  and  crying  for 
trousers.  We  do  want  the  Franchise  and  the  right  to  dress  as 
we  please,  but  these  are  only  incidental  aspects  of  the  move- 
ment for  the  independence  of  women,  though  they  lend  them- 
selves most  readily  to  caricature.  The  woman  of  the  future  is 
simply  the  working  woman.  All  we  really  want  is  to  make 
girls  economically  independent  of  marriage ;  able  to  choose 
their  mates  from  love  instead  of  selling  themselves  for  a  home." 

He  could  not  meet  her  frank  eyes ;  he  was  suddenly  re- 
minded of  his  own  marriage.  What  would  this  stainless  soul 
think  of  him  if  she  knew  he  had  sold  himself,  or — worse — if 
she  knew  why  he  had  come  to  her  this  afternoon  ?  He  mur- 
mured, surveying  t}ie  carpet,  that  he  knew  life  was  hard  for 
girls,  but  that  he  hoped  she  at  least  had  not  been  unhappy. 

"  I  ?  Oh !  I've  been  as  happy  as  the  next  girl,  though  I've 
had  my  trials,"  she  said,  cheerily,  between  smiles  and  tears. 
"  But  I  am  grateful  to  God  for  them,  else  I  should  never  have 
learned  to  sympathize  as  I  do,  and  I  should  not  have  served  the 
Master.  My  life  might  have  been  wasted  in  mere  happiness." 

Mere  happiness  !    The  phrase  went  through  him  like  a  sword. 

"  But  you  had  no  need  to  work  for  a  living,"  he  said,  dubiously. 

"  Indeed  I  had  !    I  had  nothing." 

"  You  had  a  father." 

"  Of  a  kind.  But  I  quarrelled  with  him.  You  heard  that, 
of  course." 

He  had  heard  of  it,  of  course,  but  her  affairs  had  made  trivial 
dints  upon  his  consciousness. 

"  Why  did  you  quarrel  with  him  ?"  he  asked. 

Her  face  became  a  crimson  mask.     She  lowered  her  head. 

"  Oh— I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered  in  distress,  "  Of 
course  I  had  no  right  to  ask." 


RUTH    HAILEY  493 

She  was  silent,  her  fingers  nervously  picking  out  letters  on 
the  type-writer.  Then  her  eyes  met  his  unflinchingly  again. 

"  No,  in  a  way  you  have  a  right  to  ask,"  she  said,  uneasily. 
"  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  tell  you — it's  so  long  ago.  You 
know  I  became  the  Deacon's  book-keeper  ?" 

He  nodded,  wondering. 

"  He  made  me  keep  all  his  accounts.  I  learned  all  about  his 
affairs.  Well,  one  day,  looking  over  the  books,  I  made  a  dis- 
covery." 

"  Yes  ?" 

She  hesitated.  Her  face  was  still  fiery.  The  image  of  the 
mumbling,  quid-chewing  Deacon,  with  the  roundabout  methods 
of  arriving  at  his  point,  rose  vivid  to  his  memory.  He  remem- 
bered his  childish  strain  to  understand  "  Ole  Hey's"  good  ad- 
vice. Pop  !  Pop  !  Pop  !  It  was  like  the  clack,  clack,  clack  of 
the  type-writer  under  Ruth's  nervous,  unconscious  fingers.  But 
what  was  this  she  was  saying  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  er- 
ratic automatic  music  ? 

"  I  discovered  that  he  was  cheating  you,  or  rather  your  sister 
and  Abner  Preep,  that  he  had  always  bamboozled  your  father, 
that  the  mortgage  was  more  than  paid  off  long  before,  aside  from 
the  work  he  had  gotten  out  of  your  brothers  and  sisters."  She 
paused,  then  hastened  on  with  a  lighter  tone.  "  So,  of  course, 
being  a  foolish,  hot-headed  girl,  I  wouldn't  stay  any  longer  in 
his  house  unless  he  repaid  you,  and  equally  of  course  he  refused, 
knowing  I  wouldn't  make  a  scandal,  and  so  I  went  off  to  the 
only  relative  I  had  in  the  world — my  mother's  sister  in  Port- 
land, Maine.  She  was  too  poor  to  give  me  more  than  food  and 
shelter.  But  my  knowledge  of  book-keeping  soon  got  me  a 
place  in  a  store.  And  ever  since  I  have  earned  my  own  bread, 
Heaven  be  thanked." 

She  was  not  looking  at  him  now  ;  her  fingers  were  still  lightly 
tapping  the  letters  into  combinations  that  spelled  only  embar- 
rassment. "Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  told  you  —  but  you 
won't  take  action  now,  will  you  ?" 

"  No,  seeing  that  the  money  has  been  paid  !"  he  cried,  hoarse- 
ly, with  a  sudden  intuition.  He  sprang  up  agitatedly.  "  You 
sent  us  all  that  money  anonymously — from  Maine  !" 


494  THE    MASTER 

Her  head  drooped  lower.  "  Oh,  I  felt  I  oughtn't  to  say  any. 
thing,"  she  cried  in  vexation. 

"  But  you  did,  didn't  you  ?" 

"  It  was  such  a  trifle,  anyhow,"  she  said,  deprecatingly. 

"  It  was  a  fortune  then — five  hundred  dollars  !" 

11 1  could  do  no  less.  There  was  no  other  call  for  the  money 
I  earned  in  those  first  few  years,  while  my  aunt  still  lived.  And 
I  thought  that  perhaps — "  He  came  towards  her.  "  That  per- 
haps— that  perhaps  it  might  help  you  in  your  career — my  aunt 
corresponded  with  my  poor  mother's  friends  in  Cobequid  Vil- 
lage— I  knew  how  you  were  slaving  and  sending  money  to  your 
folks." 

"  God  bless  you,  Ruth." 

"  I  hope  it  was  a  little  help  to  you,  Matt."  He  thrilled  under 
the  name,  spoken  for  the  first  time.  "  I  have  often  liked  to 
think  it  was — that  I  had  a  wee  finger  in  the  making  of  a  great 
artist." 

Her  words  cut  him  to  the  heart.  How  could  he  tell  her  that 
her  money  had  come  too  late  ?  He  was  about  to  murmur  some- 
thing, but  she  stopped  him. 

"  No,  don't  answer  me  for  fear  you  should  dispel  my  illusion. 
It  has  been  such  a  joy  to  me  when  I  read  about  your  rapid  rise 
to  say  to  myself :  '  Ah,  perhaps  we  know  something.'  But  half 
the  joy  was  in  the  secrecy  ;  now  you  have  found  me  out,  don't 
take  away  the  relics  of  my  pleasure." 

"  But  why  should  you  bother  to  read  things  about  me  ?"  he 
murmured,  only  half  sincerely,  for  another  and  more  agitating 
suspicion  was  fast  germinating  in  his  breast. 

She  flashed  a  quick  glance  up  at  him  as  he  stood  over  her, 
then  looked  down  again  indifferently,  her  sweet  mouth  quiver- 
ing. "  Oh,  why  should  I  not  be  proud  of  knowing,  if  only  in 
boyhood,  the  only  great  man  our  township  ever  produced  ?" 

But  he  had  now  been  trained  in  woman's  looks.  Rosina  and 
Eleanor  had  taught  him  much,  and  the  thought  that  was  borne 
in  upon  him  now — the  conviction  that  Ruth,  too,  loved  him, 
that  she  had  always  cherished  her  childish  affection,  though  his 
own  had  been  swamped  by  his  craving  for  Art — was  not  the 
complacent  conviction  of  a  coxcomb.  It  was  a  chilling  agony. 


RUTH    HAILEY  495 

It  pierced  his  breast  like  a  jagged  icicle.  He  had  an  appalling 
sense  as  of  responsibility  for  a  ruined  life.  The  image  of  "  Aunt 
Clara"  flashed  suddenly  before  him — careworn,  faded,  broken- 
down,  unlovely.  Was  that  to  be  the  end  of  Ruth — the  sweet 
playmate,  the  great  soul  ? 

"  And  you,  too,  have  done  something  in  life,"  he  said,  as  if 
to  reassure  himself,  trying  to  curve  his  trembling  lips  to  a 
smile. 

She  looked  up  frankly  at  him.  "  In  so  far  as  I  have  been  able 
to  help  Linda  to  help  other  girls." 

"  And  do  you  meditate — helping  Linda  all  your  life  ?" 

"  With  God's  help." 

"  Even,"  he  essayed  to  smile  again,  "  even  if  you  marry  ?" 

"  Oh,  but  I  won't  marry,"  she  said,  quickly,  and  kept  her  face 
bravely  raised  to  his,  though  the  tell-tale  rose  was  coming  and 
going  on  her  transparent  skin. 

"  Not  even  " — his  smile  was  a  ghastly  caricature — "  to  spite 
the  caricaturists?" 

She  smiled  a  faint  response.  "  Not  even  for  that.  Has  not 
Linda  sacrificed  herself  on  that  altar  ?  It's  true  she's  a  widow, 
but  still—" 

He  could  not  help  asking  the  question  :  "  But  why  won't  you 
marry  ?" 

"  Because  I  don't  want  to.  Is  that  a  woman's  reason  ?"  And 
she  smiled  again. 

"  Ruth !"  he  cried,  frenziedly,  in  a  strange  mixture  of  emo- 
tions. "  I  am  not  worthy  to  kneel  to  you !" 

She  opened  her  eyes,  wondering :  "  Because  I  prefer  celibacy? 
Because  my  life  is  happy  enough  as  it  is ;  because,  thanks  to 
Mrs.  Verder,  it  is  sufficiently  filled  with  activity  and  move- 
ment ?" 

"  Oh,  if  it  is,  if  it  is !"  he  cried,  almost  hysterically. 

"  Certainly  it  is.  You  men  are  all  so  mistaken  about  women. 
Marriage  may  be  a  necessity  for  some  women,  but  not  for  all — 
oh,  thank  God !  not  for  all.  It  may  be  harder  for  Linda,  who 
has  known  a  husband's  love — but  for  me  ?  Oh,  I  am  perfectly 
happy."  She  rose  and  moved  away  from  him,  and  began  to 
walk  restlessly  up  and  down,  talking  rapidly.  "  It  is  perfectly 


496  THE    MASTER 

absurd,  this  making  marriage  and  happiness  synonyms.  Novels 
end  with  marriage,  and  that  is  called  a  happy  ending.  Good 
heavens  !  It  is  quite  as  often  an  unhappy  beginning  !  If  you 
had  seen  the  things  I  have  seen,  heard  the  tales  women  have 
told  me  !  Even  the  women  you  would  imagine  the  most  envi- 
able are  full  of  worries.  Why,  look  at  your  own  wife,  Mr. 
Strang,  who  has  everything  to  make  her  happy."  And  her  lips 
parted  in  a  faint  smile. 

He  turned  his  face  away.  "  Did  she  also  tell  you  tales  of 
woe  ?"  he  said,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"  Well,  not  precisely  woe,  but  plenty  of  anxiety  about  the 
children,  and  about  the  dishonesty  of  her  helps,  and  she 
seemed  rather  poorly,  too.  I  hope  you  left  her  strong  and 
well." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  murmured,  flushing. 

"  How  proud  she  is  of  you,"  Ruth  went  on.  "  I  was  so  glad 
to  find  that  she  really  appreciated  you.  I  had  often  wondered. 
And  it  isn't  only  on  account  of  your  importance,  Matthew 
Strang  !  She  told  me  you  were  goodness  itself,  which,  of 
course,  I  knew,  and  that  you  had  long  wished  her  to  move 
to  a  better  neighborhood,  only  she  was  afraid  to  put  you  to 
expense.  What  a  good  woman  she  must  be  !  And  so  pretty 
too  !" 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  he  muttered.  His  face  was  still 
averted. 

"  Yes,  and  I  seem  to  remember  her  in  your  earliest  pictures. 
She's  the  woman  in  *  Motherhood,'  isn't  she  ?" 

"  I  think  she  sat  for  the  figure,"  he  said,  hesitatingly.  "  I 
couldn't  afford  models  then.  I  wish  you  weren't  going  so  soon. 
I  should  so  like  to  do  a  sketch  of  you — something  to  remember 
you  by." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  We  have  so  much  to  do  this  week. 
I  shouldn't  have  time." 

"  I  am  sorry.  Perhaps  we  shall  never  meet  again,"  he  said  in 
low  tones.  "  I  never  even  had  a  photograph  of  you — I  could 
do  a  sketch  from  that." 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  any.  You  did  a  sketch  of  me  once," 
she  reminded  him,  "  but  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  that.  That's 


RUTH    HAILEY  497 

precious — an  example  of  your  first  manner."  The  gay  note  in 
her  voice  sounded  rather  strained.  "  Don't  you  remember  ? 
You  sent  it  me  when  you  first  went  to  Halifax,  please  don't 
remember  how  many  years  ago." 

But  he  did  remember.  And  he  remembered,  too,  how  he  had 
sent  it  her  as  a  slight  return  for  the  Arabian  Nights.  He  had 
lost  her  gift  (through  the  carelessness  of  Jack  Floss)  very  soon 
after,  but  she  cherished  his  still. 

He  moved  to  her  side,  watching  her  rummage  among  heaps 
of  papers.  He  saw  the  backs  of  two  photographs,  and  picked 
them  up.  One  was  a  portrait  of  Linda  Yerder,  the  other  of  him- 
self. 

"  Both  public  celebrities,"  she  said,  with  a  little  confused 
laugh.  "  I've  never  attained  to  the  shop-windows,  so  naturally 
I  am  scarcer."  She  continued  her  search,  and  at  last  turned 
up  something.  "Ah,  there's  an  old  one — or  rather  a  young  one. 
Me  at  sixteen  !  Goodness,  to  think  I've  still  got  that !" 

His  flaccid  nerves  sent  fresh  moisture  to  his  eyes  as  he  gazed 
at  the  simple  picture  of  the  sweet,  delicate,  girlish  face,  with 
large  eyes  luminous  with  dreams,  looking  out  shyly  upon  life  in  a 
sort  of  wistful  wonder  and  expectation,  unconscious,  unprophetic 
of  the  blank  years  when  eyes  grow  dim  with  sudden  unsought 
tears. 

His  voice  was  broken  as  he  said  :  "  Thank  you.  This  is  the 
picture  I  would  most  have  wished  to  have.  Henceforward  I 
shall  think  of  you,  earnest,  truthful,  aspiring  ...  as  you  have 
thought  of  me  all  these  years.  And  now  T  suppose  I  must  not 
keep  you  any  longer  from  your  duties." 

"  Oh,  they  are  nothing.  It  is  your  time  that  is  precious,  I 
know.  I  am  rejoiced  to  have  had  this  glimpse  of  you  in  your 
fame  and  happiness.  I  shall  always  remember  this  afternoon. 
Good-bye,  Mr.  Strang."  She  held  out  her  hand. 

He  put  his,  with  the  portrait,  behind  his  back.  "  No,  I  won't," 
he  said,  petulantly.  "  Not  if  you  call  me  that." 

She  dropped  her  hand  with  a  sad  smile. 

"  You  see  I  belong  to  the  rejected,  Matt." 

He  quivered  as  at  a  thrust. 

"  No,  you  are  of  the  elect,  of  the  saints  of  this  earth." 

32 


498  THE    MASTER 

Her  smile  took  on  the  wistf  ulness  of  her  early  portrait.  They 
stood  looking  at  each  other  in  a  tender  embarrassment. 

"  Oh,  by-the-way,  Matt,  you  will  not  mind  my  speaking  of 
her  .  .  .  she  belongs  to  me  a  little  as  well  as  to  you,  you  know 
...  I  went  to  see  your  poor  mother  before  I  left  for  Europe." 

He  shuddered. 

"  Did  she  recognize  you  ?"  he  said,  in  a  half-whisper. 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  face  was  drawn  with  the  pain  of 
the  memory.  "  But  she  is  quite  gentle,  except  when  she  quotes 
texts.  They  give  her  simple  housework  to  do — it  provides  a 
vent  for  her  activity  .  .  .  marriages  are  not  always  happy,  you 
see."  A  wan  smile  flitted  across  her  features.  "  I  shall  go  to 
see  her  again.  Poor  creature  !  I  forgot  her  when  I  called  you 
happy.  The  thought  of  her  must  always  sadden  you." 

He  would  not  trust  his  voice  to  reply.  He  transferred  the 
photograph  to  his  left  hand,  and  held  out  the  right  in  silence. 
She  put  her  hand  into  his. 

"  Good-bye,  Matt ;  perhaps  forever." 

He  struggled  to  speak. 

"  Good-bye,  Ruth."  He  bent  nearer.  "  May  I  not  kiss  you 
.  .  .  for  auld  lang  syne  ?" 

She  withdrew  her  hand.  Her  voice  was  tremulous  and  low. 
"  We  are  not  playmates  now,  Matt." 

He  held  up  the  photograph. 

"  Then  I  will  kiss  the  girl  I  used  to  know." 

He  pressed  his  lips  reverentially  to  it. 

She  smiled  sadly. 

"  Good-bye  again,  dear  Matt.     God  bless  you." 

He  hurried  from  the  room,  overwhelmed  with  emotion.  The 
door  closed  upon  him,  and  he  leaned  against  the  balustrade  for 
a  moment  to  recover  himself. 

Clack  !  clack  !  clack  !  clack  !  clack  ! 

It  was  the  steady,  business-like  clatter  of  determined  work. 
She  had  taken  up  the  burden  of  Duty  again. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE      MASTER 

HE  half  groped  his  way  down  the  stairs.  In  this  mist  of  tears 
all  things  were  obscured,  even  the  image  of  Eleanor  Wyndwood. 

No,  one  thing  was  clear — the  figure  of  the  sweet  Puritan 
woman  with  her  simple  righteousness. 

He  emerged  into  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  with  its  pretentious  archi- 
tecture, its  glittering  shop  windows,  its  bustle  of  life  ;  across 
the  road  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries  stretched  away  in  the  sun- 
shine ;  but  the  gentle  figure  stood  between  him  and  Paris.  He 
tried  to  shake  her  off,  to  think  of  the  transcendent  raptures  that 
awaited  him  on  the  morrow ;  he  tried  to  see  Eleanor's  face 
steadily,  but  it  was  all  wavering  lines  like  a  reflection  in  storm- 
shaken  water.  He  bethought  himself  of  selecting  the  secluded 
restaurant  and  hiring  the  private  room  for  the  dinner,  but  the 
figure  of  Ruth  resurged,  blotting  Eleanor's  out.  He  took  out 
her  photograph  and  kissed  it  again.  "She's  a  little  angel,"  he 
cried,  aloud.  And  then,  from  that  chaos  of  ancient  memories, 
freshly  stirred  up,  came  like  an  echo  Mad  Peggy's  cry, "  She's  a 
little  angel.  .  .  ."  A  girl  passing  him  laughed  in  his  face,  and 
he  put  away  the  portrait,  flushing  and  chilled  to  the  marrow. 

He  told  himself  he  must  soak  himself  in  Paris  and  forget  her. 
He  walked  towards  the  Grand  Boulevards,  trying  vainly  to 
absorb  and  assimilate  the  gayety  of  the  streets.  He  returned  to 
his  hotel  and  dressed,  and  dined  with  dainty  dishes  and  spark- 
ling wines,  such  as  Herbert  himself  would  have  recommended. 
But  the  quivering  roots  of  his  being  had  been  laid  bare ;  his 
BOU!  vibrated  with  intangible  memories,  and  the  image  of  Ruth 
still  possessed  his  imagination — the  candid  eyes,  the  pure  skin. 
As.  ever  his  soul  was  touched  through  the  concrete. 


500  THE    MASTER 

After  dinner  he  wandered  about  tlie  gay  city,  adding  the  red 
of  his  cigar-tip  to  the  feverish  dusk  athrob  with  a  myriad  stars 
above  and  a  myriad  lights  below  ;  the  soft  spring  air  was 
charged  with  the  pleasurable  hum  of  ceaseless  pedestrians  ;  the 
theatres  and  music-halls  and  dancing  places  blazoned  themselves 
upon  the  night ;  the  great  restaurants  flared  within  and  without, 
their  pavement  tables  thronged  with  light-hearted  men  and 
pretty  women,  gossiping,  laughing,  clinking  glasses.  Women, 
everywhere  women.  They  looked  out  even  from  the  illustrated 
papers  of  the  illumined  kiosks.  The  shining  city  seemed  to 
waft  an  incense  of  pleasure  up  to  the  stars ;  to  breathe  out  an 
aroma  of  sinless  voluptuousness  that  rose  like  a  thank-offering 
for  life.  His  heart  expanded  to  all  this  happiness ;  he  felt  him- 
self being  caught  up  by  the  great  joyous  wave,  and  Eleanor 
Wyndwood's  face  came  back,  radiant  and  seductive.  But  Ruth 
Hailey  was  still  at  his  side,  and  ever  and  anon  he  saw  her  as  in 
her  later  guise  —  stern,  sorrowful,  negativing ;  she  stood  out 
against  the  whole  city. 

He  seated  himself  before  one  of  the  innumerable  little  marble 
gueridons.  He  was  at  the  cross-roads  of  the  great  arteries 
dominated  by  the  fulgent  fa$ade  of  the  Opera  House,  where  he 
could  watch  the  perpetual  currents  of  gladsome  life.  He  ob- 
served the  countless  couples  with  emotion,  striving  to  concen- 
trate himself  on  the  thought  of  his  imminent  happiness,  when 
the  love  that  sustained  the  world  and  made  it  sustainable  should 
be  his  at  last ;  when  he  should  become  as  other  men,  living  the 
natural  life  of  the  race  and  the  sexes  in  sympathetic  fusion. 
But  the  figure  of  Ruth  Hailey  stood  firm  amid  the  swirling 
crowds,  and  her  pure  eyes  shamed  his  thought,  and  filled  his 
breast  with  an  aching  tenderness  for  the  poor  human  atoms  he 
had  deserted  —  for  Rosina,  for  Billy,  for  "  Aunt  Clara  "  —  for 
whom  there  was  no  happiness  and  no  natural  life.  He  fought 
against  this  obsession  of  Ruth's  spirit,  he  struggled  to  fix  his 
vision  on  the  glitter  and  the  gayety,  but  he  had  to  see  her 
standing  like  a  rock  or  a  tower,  four-square  against  smiling, 
treacherous  seas. 

But  if  he  went  back  to  Rosina  in  honorable  acknowledged 
union,  then  farewell  to  Society  !  To  take  her  about  with  him 


THE    MASTER  501 

was  out  of  the  question;  she  would  be  more  unhappy  than  he  in 
those  high  glacial  latitudes  of  humanity.  Well,  what  was 
Society  to  him  ?  He  could  shake  it  off  as  easily  as  the  Micmac 
of  his  childhood  shook  off  the  clothes  of  Christendom.  To  be 
shut  out  from  Society  were  no  privation  for  him.  He  had  the 
advantage  of  his  fellow-artists,  who  sacrificed  at  its  shrine  and 
were  sacrificed  to  it.  He  could  couch  on  fir  boughs,  he  had 
lived  on  bread  and  water.  This  constant  concern  with  wines 
and  cookery,  with  couches  and  carriages  ;  this  gorging  and  gor- 
mandizing and  self  -  pampering — did  it  add  dignity  to  life? 
Was  it  worth  the  hecatomb  of  hearts  and  souls  offered  up  for  it 
— this  low  luxury  of  the  higher  classes?  Was  not  simplicity 
the  note  of  greatness — in  life  as  in  Art  ?  And  howsoever  sim- 
ple the  complex  comfort  of  their  lives  might  seem  to  those  born 
to  it,  was  it  for  artists  to  imitate  this  lowest  side  of  the  upper 
classes,  especially  if  it  frittered  away  their  Art?  Was  it  for 
Bohemia  to  ape  Philistia,  and  for  Art — the  last  of  the  rebels 
against  the  platitudinization  of  life — to  bow  the  knee  and  swear 
allegiance  to  the  vulgar  ideals  of  fashion  ?  They  had  drawn  him 
even  from  boyhood,  these  showy  ideals  •  from  the  days  when  he 
had  peered  wistfully  into  the  cricket-ground  at  Halifax.  But  he 
was  done  with  boyhood  now. 

Ah,  but  if  he  went  back  to  Rosina  —  and  the  new  thought 
struck  a  chill  as  of  graveyard  damps — it  was  all  over  with  his 
Art.  That,  just  beginning  to  revive  under  the  inspiration  of 
Eleanor  Wyndwood,  would  be  a  sheer  impossibility  under  the 
daily  oppression  of  Rosina  with  her  kitchen  horizon.  His  im- 
agination would  be  clogged  with  the  vapors  of  cabbage.  And 
of  the  old  bad  work  he  had  had  enough.  He  would  retire  from 
Art  as  from  Society,  and  the  Exhibitions  should  know  him  no 
more.  He  would  go  out  of  the  business ;  that  was  all  it  was, 
he  told  himself  with  a  bitter  smile.  His  fame  was  a  bauble,  a 
bagatelle.  For  all  it  mattered  to  him  it  might  have  been  his 
dead  uncle,  Matthew  Strang,  whose  name  was  on  the  lips  of 
strangers.  There  was  still  work  in  the  world  for  an  honest  man 
to  do ;  he  remembered  again  that  his  hands  could  wield  more 
than  the  brush  ;  besides,  he  had  a  little  capital  now,  Rosina  had 
still  her  income.  Perhaps  they  would  go  back  to  Nova  Scotia 


502  THE    MASTER 

and  buy  a  farm.  They  would  sow  and  reap,  far  from  the  glare 
of  cities,  and  the  sweet,  simple  sun  and  rain  would  bless  the 
work  of  their  hands.  His  life  would  be  joyless,  but  perchance 
his  soul  would  be  at  peace. 

Yes,  but  to  give  up  Art !  Art,  which  was  the  meaning  of  his 
life !  Rosina's  life  stood  for  nothing.  It  was  out  of  all  propor- 
tion to  give  up  his  for  hers.  Had  he  not  suffered  enough  ?  Had 
he  not  already  expiated  his  marriage,  the  hapless  union  he  had 
entered  into  when  distracted  by  illness  and  disgrace  and  hunger, 
when  perhaps  his  whole  future  had  hinged — such  were  the  tragi- 
whimsical  turns  of  life — on  his  reluctance  to  change  his  last  two 
dollars  ? 

He  rose  and  walked  about  restlessly  through  the  glistening 
streets.  Everywhere  restaurants,  open-air  tables,  men,  women. 
He  wandered  to  Montmartre.  More  restaurants,  more  couples, 
cafes,  cabarets,  queer  entertainments :  Le  Chat  Noir,  Le  Rat 
Mort,  the  red  sails  of  the  famous  Mill  turning  tirelessly,  lights, 
gayety,  women,  always  women,  of  all  shades  of  prettiness  and 
piquancy,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  lips  not  always  painted,  and 
eyes  that  could  shine  without  bismuth.  He  walked  back  through 
the  Grand  Boulevards — they  were  one  flush  of  life. 

But  the  reasoning  was  inexorable.  He  had  sacrificed  Rosina 
to  his  Art ;  Art  had  slipped  through  his  fingers,  but  Rosina  re- 
mained none  the  less  sacrificed.  Now  his  Art  must  be  sacrificed 
to  Rosina — the  atonement  was  logical.  That  was  not  a  surren- 
der, he  told  himself  angrily,  to  Ruth  Hailey's  view  of  life — a 
view  whose  narrowness  he  and  everybody  around  him  had  out- 
grown. He  refused  to  recognize,  in  the  face  of  this  radiant 
Paris,  that  each  human  soul  came  into  the  world  to  sacrifice  its 
happiness  to  other  human  souls.  That  seemed  to  him  a  pre- 
posterous paradox  rather  than  a  solution ;  a  world  of  reciprocal 
whipping-boys  was  an  absurdity,  and,  at  any  rate,  if  such  were 
the  scheme  of  creation,  it  did  not  work  at  all  with  the  gross  run 
of  mankind,  to  say  nothing  of  animals.  The  only  reason  for 
going  back  to  Rosina  must  be  honestly  to  fulfil  his  side  of  the 
bargain.  She  had  done  her  part,  he  must  do  his.  That  his  re- 
turn to  her  meant  the  ruin  of  his  life  and  his  life-work  was  not 
her  concern ;  these  larger  issues  were  too  wide  for  her  compre- 


THE    MASTER  503 

hension  ;  she  loved  her  husband  and  she  desired  him.  That  was 
enough.  He  owed  himself  to  her,  and  to  shirk  his  obligation 
was  as  dishonorable  as  to  disown  a  debt.  He  had  paid  off  the 
Stasborough  store-keeper,  although  absolved  by  bankruptcy ;  he 
must  be  equally  honorable  with  Rosiria,  though  his  life  had  been 
bankrupted.  Practically  his  Art  had  always  been  sacrificed  to 
her ;  it  was  her  pettiness  that  ha.d  driven  him  to  produce  in 
haste  for  the  market,  so  as  to  escape  indebtedness  to  her ;  well, 
let  the  sacrifice  be  consummated. 

He  had  come  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde — it  seemed  a  fairy- 
land of  romantic  lights,  a  dance  of  fire  -  flies ;  it  wooed  him 
towards  the  calm  and  solitude  of  the  river.  He  leaned  on  the 
parapet  and  saw  the  sombre,  fire-shot  water  stretching  away  in 
marvellously  solemn  beauty,  hushed  and  lonely,  its  many-twin- 
kling perspective  of  green  and  red  and  yellow  gleams  palpitating 
in  the  air  dim  with  a  yearning  poetry.  He  felt  the  presence  of 
Ruth  Hailey  at  his  side ;  she  looked  like  the  photograph  now ; 
he  held  her  little  hand  and  gazed  into  her  candid  eyes.  Good 
God !  This  girl  had  loved  him  all  those  lonp-  years,  and  would 
be  hopelessly  faithful  even  unto  death. 

But  if  he  went  back  to  Rosina,  what  of  Eleanor  Wyndwood  2 
AVould  he  spoil  her  life,  too  ?  and  more  culpably  than  he  had 
spoiled  Ruth  Hailey's  ?  He  sighed  wearily  ;  it  was  impossible 
to  do  wrong  and  have  the  result  simple.  Life  was  so  intercom- 
plicated.  But  he  had  been  honest  with  Eleanor,  thank  heaven; 
she  knew  the  truth  about  his  life ;  he  would  be  honest  with  her 
to  the  end.  He  would  tell  her  the  truth  now.  The  same  noble, 
uncalculating  simplicity  that  had  accorded  him  friendship,  that 
had  been  ready  to  give  him  love,  would  bear  her  triumphantly 
through  the  new  trial.  He  remembered  her  brave  words  :  "  If 
I  did  not  suffer  I  should  think  I  had  not  grown."  Perhaps 
there  would  be  consolation  for  both  in  the  thought  that  she  re- 
mained unsullied  before  the  world. 

He  crossed  the  river,  and  his  mood  changed.  He  got 
towards  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  wandered  into  the  "  Boule 
Miche  "  amid  the  students'  restaurants,  where  young  humanity 
sat  in  its  couples  again,  amorous  and  gay  ;  every  place  was  full 
within  and  without,  and  there  was  the  gurgle  of  liquids  with 


504  THE    MASTER 

the  sounds  of  singing  and  laughter;  he  was  back  again  amid 
the  blithe,  insouciant,  easy-going  life  of  the  eternal  undergradu- 
ate, with  the  local  variation  of  bocks;  rakish  young  men 
danced  through  the  restaurants  arm  in  arm  in  tipsy  merri- 
ment ;  poets  with  lack-lustre  visages  and  tumbled  hair  imbibed 
vermouth,  clinking  glasses  with  their  mistresses ;  the  smoky 
air  vibrated  with  irresponsible  gayety ;  it  was  full  of  invitations 
to  careless  happiness,  joyous  levity,  forgetfulness  of  an  austere 
view  of  life.  Puritanism  seemed  a  form  of  dementia,  asceti- 
cism a  sunless  folly.  The  atmosphere  gained  upon  him.  He 
tossed  off  a  bock,  then  walked  recklessly  past  Mrs.  Wynd- 
wood's  studio.  The  whole  court-yard  was  in  darkness,  but  he 
thought  of  to-morrow  night,  and  it  glowed  as  with  bonfires  of 
joy.  He  resolved  to  sup  famously.  He  jumped  into  a  victoria 
and  drove  to  a  fashionable  restaurant.  It  was  near  midnight ; 
the  theatres  had  emptied,  but  the  streets  were  only  the  fuller. 
He  passed  through  rooms  full  of  dazzling  women  in  gorgeous 
evening  costumes,  sipping  champagne  ;  women,  always  women  : 
the  city  blossomed  with  them  like  roses.  He  ordered  some 
oysters  and  chablis,  and  forgot  to  eat ;  opposite  him  a  self- 
conscious  celebrity  of  the  footlights,  blazing  with  diamonds, 
held  her  court,  surrounded  by  a  bevy  of  dandies ;  behind  him 
a  black-eyed  demi-mondaine  in  red  playfully  rapped  her  cava- 
lier's knuckles ;  at  the  next  table  the  exuberant  liveliness  of  a 
supper  party  diverted  him;  he  drank,  drank,  listening  greedily 
to  the  gay  repartees.  Life  should  be  joy,  joy,  joy,  he  thought. 
That  was  what  modern  life  lacked,  gray  with  problems,  wrinkled 
with  thought.  These  people  lived — lived  in  splendid  insolence 
under  the  midnight  sun.  There  was  a  touch  of  bigness  that 
appealed  to  him  in  their  arrogant  vitality.  Society  was  an 
organized  insipidity,  afraid  of  life. 

The  figure  of  Ruth  Hailey  rose  rebuking;  he  paid  the  bill 
and  went  out. 

But  his  heart  cried,  ached  for  happiness.  Ah,  no  !  He  could 
not  give  up  so  young;  go  into  a  living  grave.  He  roved 
the  Boulevards  again.  The  beautiful  city  solicited  him,  rouged 
and  perfumed,  clad  in  shining  garments,  with  star-gemmed 
hair.  But  the  virginal  figure  of  Ruth  Hailey,  with  sweet 


THE    MASTER  505 

shy  eyes,  stood  against  the  city.  Paris  seemed  garish  beside 
her. 

He  was  fluctuating  again.  It  seemed  as  if  the  simple  girl 
would  draw  him  away  from  all  the  joys  of  life.  Was  there  no 
means  of  ridding  himself  of  her  haunting  presence  ?  A  gro- 
tesque mask  looked  out  of  a  cab.  .  Ah !  the  fancy  ball !  He 
had  forgotten.  That  would  lay  the  ghost  of  his  disordered 
imagination.  He  felt  in  his  pocket  and  found  the  ticket;  he 
hastened  to  the  scene  of  revelry.  A  clatter  of  cabs  and  a  blaze 
of  lights — he  had  arrived. 

The  first  glimpse  within  was  exhilarating,  provoking,  daz- 
zling, overwhelming ;  he  had  a  confused  sense  of  a  hall  of  a 
thousand  lights  and  mirrors,  reeking  with  scent  and  heat,  rever- 
berant with  music  and  shrieks  and  laughter,  white  with  the 
whirling  gleam  of  semi-nude  women,  and  motley  with  the  rain- 
bow hues  and  multiplied  reflections  of  male  masqueraders ;  a 
mad,  joyous  orgy,  the  diabolical  medley  of  a  glittering,  tin- 
selled pantomime  and  an  opium-eater's  nightmare.  Ah,  here 
was  oblivion  of  Ruth  Hailey  at  last,  and  he  eagerly  took  up  a 
position  on  a  raised  platform  that  ran  along  the  side  of  the 
gigantic  ball-room,  trying  to  catch  the  contagion  of  the  scene, 
and  ready  to  rush  into  the  heart  of  the  devil-may-care  jollity. 
The  gleeful,  palpitating  pageant — a  twisted,  tangled  kaleido- 
scopic rally  of  riotous  color  and  flesh  tones  —  tore  past  him, 
dancing,  leaping,  shrieking,  wantoning,  clowning,  kissing,  un- 
couth as  the  gargoyles  of  Notre  Dame  and  brilliant  as  the  mid- 
night Boulevard :  Japanese  figures  and  demons,  gladiators  in 
cuirasses  and  bathing  drawers,  Gallic  warriors  in  skins,  brawny 
barbarians  in  blankets,  Amazons  with  brass  breasts,  a  savage 
in  a  girdle  of  fig-leaves,  a  real  Samoan  girl  with  coal-black  hair 
in  the  convoy  of  her  Russian  lover  in  a  tall  white  hat,  a  boy 
as  a  German  girl,  and  an  elderly  woman  as  a  gendarme  with 
orange  blossoms  in  her  hair ;  one  man  with  a  helmet  crowned 
by  a  black  cat,  and  another  with  a  mock  broken  head,  reddened 
bandages,  and  a  hideous  stream  of  blood  on  his  shirt-front. 
And  women  —  always  women;  a  few  masked,  but  most  bare- 
faced, shining  with  flowers  and  flesh ;  models  of  all  sorts  and 
conditions,  some  with  artistic  dresses  designed  by  their  favorite 


506  THE     MASTER 

students,  some  with  tarnished  gaudery  ;  blondes,  brunettes  of 
every  nationality  —  French,  English,  Greek,  Italian,  Creoles, 
Negresses,  diversely  dowered ;  frail  anaemic  women,  fervid 
gypsy-like  women,  saucily  splendid  women,  soft  sleepy  women 
with  languorous  black  eyes,  sweet  lily-like  women,  big  blowzy 
women,  tall  febrile  women,  little  demoniac  women,  all  content 
to  take  life  as  a  flash  of  leaping  flame  flickering  out  to  an  early 
darkness.  And  as  they  danced  and  laughed  and  romped  and 
shouted,  the  fun  rose  to  hysterical  frenzy ;  four  masked  men 
bore  the  queen  of  the  models,  sinuous  in  complete  fleshings, 
niched  in  an  outspread  gigantic  fan ;  before  it  a  Druid  and  a 
Bacchante  danced  backward ;  behind  it  seethed  a  vast  pict- 
uresque procession  of  women  mounted  on  their  cavaliers' 
shoulders,  smoking  cigarettes  and  waving  lighted  red  and  green 
lanterns;  at  its  sides  girls  pirouetted  frantically,  foot  in  mouth; 
the  brazen  orchestra  clanged — the  procession  defiled,  frolicking, 
round  and  round  the  hall,  roaring  a  students'  marching  chorus  ; 
a  wave  of  hysteria  ran  through  the  assembly,  mighty,  magnetic, 
compulsive ;  and  Matthew  Strang  waved  his  arms  and  shouted 
and  sang  with  the  best.  Joy,  joy,  joy,  this  was  your  true 
artistic  interpretation  of  life.  Away  with  this  modern  mor- 
bidity !  He  was  one  in  soul  with  all  the  great  artists,  all  the 
Masters  who  had  had  their  royal  way  in  life.  O  royal  Eleanor ! 
O  rare  Eleanor !  fit  mate  for  a  mighty  artist !  Then  supper 
came,  and  he  fought  for  some  in  the  balconies,  amid  the  roar 
of  voices,  and  the  rattle  of  knives,  and  the  shouts  for  the 
maddened  waiters,  and  the  indescribable  exhalations  of  food 
and  wine  and  smoke  and  hot  air  and  scented  flesh.  The  half- 
deserted  dancing  floor  was  littered  with  champagne  capsules, 
bits  of  lanterns,  ends  of  cigarettes,  fragments  of  dresses,  span- 
gles, morsels  of  fur.  After  supper  the  frolic  grew  more  in- 
toxicating, the  gayety  more  reckless ;  sweet  demure-looking 
girls  gave  themselves  to  high-kicking  and  lascivious  move- 
ment; they  obliged  with  the  danse  du  ventre •  in  a  corner  a 
woman  turned  somersaults  from  sheer  light-heeledness,  a  bashi- 
bazouk  trundled  a  hoop  through  the  centre  of  the  room,  a 
band  of  fifty  dancers  with  joined  hands  ran  amuck  among  the 
yelling  crowd.  Matthew  Strang's  senses  ached  with  the  riot  of 


THE    MASTER  507 

color  and  the  rollick  of  figures  and  the  efflorescence  of  feminin- 
ity, and  the  tohu-bohu  of  this  witches'  sabbath.  And  then  a 
strange  ancient  thought  struck  him  afresh — the  same  grotesque 
thought  that  after  his  father's  death  had  weighed  upon  his 
childhood :  very  soon  all  these  scintillating,  whirling  figures 
would  lie  still  and  cold,  frozen  in  death.  They  suddenly  be- 
came nothing  but  marionettes  in  a  clock-work  mechanism  des- 
tined to  run  down.  And  then  the  girlish  form  that  had  hovered 
mistily  in  his  neighborhood  throughout  all  the  tumultuous 
hours  grew  clear  again,  and  against  this  pandemoniac  back- 
ground the  inexorable  figure  of  Ruth  Hailey  rose,  simple  and 
virginal,  with  sweet  shy  eyes. 

When  he  came  back  to  consciousness  of  the  revellers,  they 
had  formed  a  human  amphitheatre,  an  inner  circle  lying  on 
the  ground,  and  the  next  squatting,  and  the  next  kneeling,  and 
the  next  half  standing,  and  the  last  but  one  erect,  and  the  last 
of  all  surmounted  by  shouldered  girls,  and  in  the  centre  of  this 
human  amphitheatre  a  beautiful  young  nude  model  with  ruddy 
brown  hair  struck  graceful  attitudes.  The  cold  blue  light  of 
dawn  fell  through  a  semicircular  window  overhead  and  mingled 
weirdly  with  the  yellowish  electric  light,  lending  a  strange,  wan, 
unearthly  hue  to  all  these  painted,  perspiring  faces. 

The  atmosphere  seemed  unbearably  mephitic.  He  sallied 
shamefacedly  into  the  street.  It  was  Sunday  morning,  stainless 
and  fresh  and  blue.  The  sunrise  brooded  over  the  sleeping 
gray-etched  city  in  sacred  splendor.  The  sun  was  like  a  gigan- 
tic bowl  of  pure  gold  with  a  refracted  cover  separated  from  it 
by  a  rift  of  cloud.  Around  it  the  sky  was  dappled  with  lines 
and  splashes  and  a  ring  or  two  of  pale  sulphur,  ending  to  the 
south  in  a  narrow  gulf  of  green.  And  all  this  loveliness  of  color 
was  spread  on  two  amorphous  islands  of  amber-gray  in  an  ocean 
of  pale-blue  sky,  across  which  a  few  fleecy  clouds  sailed  swan- 
like. 

He  had  a  perception  of  the  divine,  speaking  through  the 
silence  of  beauty.  And  the  world  was  asleep  or  at  riot. 

Ah!  this  should  have  been  the  message  of  his  Art.  Each 
morn  the  sunrise  spoke  its  flaming  word  unheard ;  it  was  the 
artist's  function  to  stir  the  world  to  the  perception  of  the  sub- 


508  THE    MASTER 

limity  and  poetry  that  lay  all  around  unheeded ;  to  uplift  its 
eyes  to  the  loveliness  of  realities,  realities  solid  as  rocks,  yet 
beautiful  as  dreams ;  visionary  and  tangible ;  the  great  verities 
of  sun  and  sea  and  forest,  of  righteousness  and  high  thinking ; 
beautiful  and  elemental. 

Too  late !  Too  late !  Art  was  over  now.  Not  to  his  hand 
had  the  mission  been  given ;  once  he  had  thought  to  feel  the 
sacred  fire  in  his  bosom  ;  but  he  knew  now  that  the  mission 
was  not  for  him.  He  had  failed. 

The  great  streets  stretched  under  the  blue  dawn  bathed  in 
sacred  freshness.  The  stir  of  night  was  passing  into  the  stir  of 
morning.  The  sleepy  yawn  of  returning  revellers  was  met  by 
the  sleepy  yawn  of  early-risen  artisans.  Two  horrible  hags  of 
rag-pickers,  first  astir  of  Parisians,  were  resting  their  bas- 
kets on  a  bench ;  he  heard  them  rapturously  recalling  the 
excellence  of  the  soup  they  had  made  from  the  bones,  picked 
clean  by  dogs,  that  they  had  gathered  from  the  citizens'  ash- 
pans. 

Ah,  not  all  the  world  was  gay.  He  had  been  surveying  only 
the  sparkling  bubbles  and  froth  of  Paris.  Below  flowed  the 
sober,  orderly,  industrious  civic  life,  with  its  bottom  dregs  of 
misery.  All  the  great  cities  were  full  of  dolorous  figures,  every 
by-way  and  alley  swarmed  with  sickly  faces,  pale  fruits  of  a 
congested  civilization.  He  had  always  kept  his  eye  on  those 
happier  than  he;  now  he  was  reminded  of  how  much  more 
than  the  man  in  the  street  he  had  drawn  in  the  lottery  of  the 
fates.  He  remembered  the  saying  of  a  street  scavenger  he  had 
come  across  in  his  days  of  destitution.  "  I'm  neither  hungry 
nor  dry,  so  what  have  I  to  grumble  about,  mate  ?"  What,  in- 
deed, had  he,  Matthew  Strang,  to  grumble  about?  There  did 
not  seem  to  be  enough  happiness  to  go  round.  Who  was  he, 
to  be  selected  for  a  special  helping  ?  Who  was  he  more  than 
his  mate  the  scavenger,  more  than  any  other  of  the  human  souls 
he  had  met  in  his  diversified  career,  more  than  his  fellow-lodgers 
in  the  slums  of  Holborn  or  Halifax,  or  his  fellow-passengers  on 
board  The  Enterprise,  or  the  blind  woman  who  caned  chairs  in 
the  basement  of  the  house  of  the  Rotherhithe  bird-stuffer  ?  Why 
should  he  be  happy  ? 


THE    MASTER  509 

It  was  like  a  new  thought,  luminous  and  arrestive.  And  then 
it  flashed  upon  him  that  all  this  glitter  of  gayety  that  had  daz- 
zled his  covetous  eyes,  even  if  it  were  not  half  an  illusion,  was 
infinitely  subdivided ;  each  person  could  only  have  a  minute 
share  in  the  overwhelming  total,  and  even  this  quantum  of  joy 
must  be  alloyed  with  the  inevitable  miseries  of  the  human  lot. 
This  was  the  fallacy  that  in  London,  too,  had  added  the  sting  of 
envy  to  his  unhappiness  ;  he  had  lumped  together  all  the  pleas- 
ure and  splendor  and  happiness  of  the  capital,  forgetting  that 
though  it  could  all  be  lacked  by  one  man,  it  could  not  be  pos- 
sessed by  one.  And  to  look  at  life  from  the  outside  was  child- 
ish— it  was  like  reading  paragraphs  about  people  in  the  news- 
papers. How  happy  he  himself  loomed  in  biographical  sum- 
maries !  Poor  Rosina !  Poor  Aunt  Clara !  Poor  Billy  !  What 
happiness  for  these? 

They  were  foolish,  fretful  creatures,  all  of  them  ;  in  the  jargon 
of  the  drawing-rooms,  bourgeois,  vulgar,  impossible,  too  low  even 
for  the  stigma  of  "  suburban  " ;  but  their  lives  were  as  important 
to  them  as  his  life  to  him.  Each  soul  was  the  centre  of  its  own 
world.  If  he  could  understand  them,  and  they  could  not  under- 
stand him,  the  gain  was  to  him.  He  was  strong,  therefore  he 
must  supplement  their  weakness ;  not  because  of  any  ethics  or 
theology,  simply  because  he  was  stronger.  For  sheer  pity  he 
must  give  up  his  life  to  theirs;  sacrifice  bis  Art  to  their  happi- 
ness. He  must  adapt  himself  to  their  points  of  view,  since  they 
could  not  adapt  themselves  to  his ;  if  for  Rosina  the  world 
turned  on  the  price  of  beef,  he  must  teach  himself  to  be  inter- 
ested in  the  price  of  beef.  He  had  found  it  easy  enough  on 
the  day  when  they  had  gone  a-marketing  together  at  Halifax. 
He  saw  her  as  then,  buoyant,  youthful,  gay,  even  pretty  ;  was  it 
not  he  who  had  made  her  shrewish,  sorrowful,  unlovely  ?  How 
nobly  reticent  she  had  been  about  his  neglect  of  her !  Coble 
had  died  thinking  her  ideally  happy,  boastfully  proud  of  his  son- 
in-law.  And  after  all,  there  was  an  excellent  side  to  her  econom- 
ical instincts  ;  she  did  not  long  for  diamonds  and  dinner-parties 
like  the  wives  of  other  artists ;  nay,  wiser,  perhaps,  than  he,  she 
had  known  how  to  content  herself  with  her  own  station.  Even 
Tarmigan  must  have  approved  of  her  as  an  artist's  wife.  Yes,  he 


510  THE    MASTER 

must  go  back  to  her  and  his  children,  not  out  of  any  deference 
to  the  marriage-tie,  but  as  individual  to  individuals. 

He  arrived  at  his  hotel.  To  his  astonishment  it  was  in  full 
illumination ;  he  heard  the  strains  of  dance-music  from  within. 
He  peeped  into  the  magnificent  dining-room  ;  it  was  become  a 
ball-room,  and  sober  couples  were  waltzing.  Women,  always 
women  ;  irreproachable  this  time  ;  elegant  in  shimmering  silks. 
The  world  of  fashion  was  dancing  there— dancing  on  behalf  of 
a  charity. 

He  wavered  again  ;  this  was  the  world  he  was  leaving  forever, 
the  world  of  soft  things,  the  world  of  thought  and  pleasant 
speech,  the  world  of  art  and  books  and  music,  the  caressing 
world  that  praised  pictures,  and  the  makers  thereof :  the  world 
of  Eleanor  Wyndwood.  But  the  fight  was  over  ;  in  every  sense, 
he  told  himself,  the  fight  was  over.  He  must  go  to  Eleanor 
and  tell  her  that  happiness  was  not  for  either ;  she  would  be 
strong  and  fine,  she  would  strengthen  him  in  his  obedience  to 
the  higher  voice.  But  oh — and  her  face  swam  up  vivid  again 
— would  not  the  very  sight  of  her  weaken  him,  shatter  his  re- 
solve ?  And  perhaps,  too,  the  sight  of  him  would  weaken  even 
her.  No,  they  must  never  meet  again ;  that  was  the  simplest, 
the  least  painful  for  both. 

He  gave  instructions  that  he  was  to  leave  by  the  first  morning 
train;  he  mounted  to  his  room  and  packed  up;  then  he  wrote 
to  Eleanor. 

DEAREST  ELEANOR, — Forgive  me  that  I  must  cause  you  pain.  I  can  only 
hope  it  will  prove  to  have  saved  you  greater  pain  in  the  future.  But,  my 
dear,  I  must  not  pretend  it  is  from  any  unselfish  desire  to  save  you  from  sac- 
rificing yourself  to'my  happiness,  as  you  in  your  generous  nobility  have  been 
ready  to  do,  that  I  have  resolved  never  to  see  you  again  I  am  leaving  Paris 
at  once.  When  I  tell  you  the  reason  I  know  that  it  will  ease  your  pain,  and 
that  your  noble  nature  will  approve  and  forgive.  I  am  going  back  to  my 
wife.  I  have  thought  it  over  and  see  that  I  have  no  option.  I  have  been 
forgetting  that  in  return  for  her  helping  me  to  Art,  I  vowed  to  love,  cherish, 
and  protect  her.  If  I  cannot  love  her — if  I  can  only  love  you,  if  the  thought 
of  you  will  always  be  like  music  to  me,  though  I  must  never  see  you  again  in 
the  flesh — I  must  at  least  do  my  best  to  make  her  happy.  This  ia  not  only 
a  farewell  to  you,  it  is  a  farewell  to  Art.  Without  you  to  inspire  it,  my  Art 
is  dead.  I  retire  from  the  long  contest  broken-hearted. 

Yours  so  truly,  MATTHEW  STRANO. 


THE    MASTER  511 

P.S. — I  dared  not  trust  myself  to  come  and  tell  you  this.  It  would  have 
been  a  useless  trial  for  both  of  us.  You  will  be  happier  without  me  and  all 
the  suffering  my  selfish  passion  must  have  brought  upon  you.  Forget  me. 
God  bless  you. 

He  descended  to  the  court-yard  and  dropped  the  letter  into 
the  box.  Then  he  sat  outside  on  his  balcony  and  watched  the 
great  gleaming  Boulevards  as  they  woke  to  the  new  day. 

He  was  too  early  at  the  station,  and  the  train  tarried.  The 
porters  leisurely  wheeled  in  the  luggage.  Sleepy  passengers 
straggled  up,  armed  with  gayly  illustrated  papers  broad  with 
Gallic  buffoonery. 

Oh,  the  agony  of  that  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  Paris 
beckoned  him  with  its  finger  of  morning  sunlight,  when  Art 
cried  to  him  from  a  thousand  happy  ateliers,  calling  him  to 
come  back  and  be  happy  in  the  great  work  he  felt  he  had  been 
about  to  do  at  last;  when  Love  shone  like  a  purple  haze  veiling 
the  world  in  poetic  dream,  and  sang  to  him  like  an  angel's  voice, 
and  witched  him  back  with  the  eyes  and  the  hair  and  the  lips 
of  Eleanor  Wyndwood ! 

But  the  train  was  going  at  last,  and  he  must  take  his  seat  in 
his  first-class  compartment.  It  was  his  second  defeat,  his  sec- 
ond farewell  to  Art,  bitterer,  crueller  by  a  thousand-fold  than 
the  first,  when  he  had  sailed  home  again  penniless,  broken  in 
soul  and  body.  Then,  at  least,  home  was  a  tender  recollection. 
Now — !  And  he  had  been  so  near  the  goal  of  happiness,  the 
cup  had  been  at  his  very  lips.  Never  to  be  happy — never,  never ! 
The  sudden  shriek  of  the  engine  sounded  sardonic.  The  train 
moved  on,  bearing  Matthew  Strang  from  all  the  sweetness  and 
savor  of  life.  In  the  great  ocean  of  existence  wherein  men 
struggle  for  happiness  he  had  gone  down — like  his  father. 

But,  like  his  father,  he  had  gone  down  wrapped  in  his  flag. 

The  stage  of  the  world  is  not  adapted  for  heroic  attitudes,  un- 
less the  curtain  be  dropped  on  the  instant. 

To  pass,  after  a  tedious  day-long  journey,  from  the  vivid  bou- 
levards to  the  gray  dreariness  of  a  poor  London  suburb  on  a 
Sunday  evening  was  already  a  chill  to  the  artistic  mind  ;  to  find 
that  the  wife  into  whose  arms  he  had  come  to  fall  in  dramatic 


512  THE    MASTER 

contrition  was  not  only  out,  but  gone  to  church  with  Aunt  Clara 
and  little  Clara,  was  to  be  further  reminded  of  the  essentially  in- 
artistic character  of  life  in  general,  and  of  its  especial  narrowness 
in  church-going  districts. 

But  he  stooped  down  to  kiss  little  Davie,  who,  by  reason  of 
the  servant's  "  Sunday  out,"  had  opened  the  door  and  explained 
these  things  to  him.  He  saw  that  the  child  had  a  little  wood- 
en mannikin  in  his  hand,  and  was  sucking  it. 

"  Don't  suck  that,  Davie,"  he  said. 

"  There  ain't  no  paint  to  spoil,"  Davie  urged,  gravely.  "  It's 
all  gone." 

Matthew  carried  both  the  little  men  down-stairs  on  his  shoul- 
der. In  the  kitchen  he  found  Billy  moping  by  the  fire — profit- 
ing by  the  absence  of  the  servant  to  enjoy  the  only  fire  Rosina's 
economy  permitted  at  this  season  of  the  year — but  sunk  so  deep 
in  a  black  reverie  that  he  did  not  raise  his  head  at  the  unwonted 
footsteps. 

A  wave  of  protective  love,  almost  paternal,  flooded  Matthew's 
soul ;  he  laid  his  hand  on  poor  Billy's  head  as  in  benediction. 
Nevermore  would  they  be  parted,  nevermore. 

"  Billy,"  he  said,  softly. 

The  young  man  started  violently,  and  looked  up. 

"  I've  come  back,  Billy,"  he  said,  tenderly. 

"  So  I  see,"  replied  Billy,  ungraciously. 

He  was  stung  to  the  quick,  but  he  controlled  his  pain ;  he 
saw  this  was  part  of  his  atonement. 

"  I've  come  to  make  it  up  with  Rosina.  I'm  not  going  away 
again,"  he  went  on  gently,  his  hand  on  Billy's  shoulder. 

"  And  what's  the  use  of  that  ?"  Billy  snapped.  "  Even  if  she 
makes  it  up  with  you,  she'll  break  out  again  in  a  few  days.  I 
know  her." 

He  set  down  the  child  with  a  sigh,  and  drew  a  chair  to  his 
brother's  side.  Davie  climbed  trustfully  on  his  knee.  The 
kettle  was  singing,  and  a  plump  gray  cat  purred  in  the  fender. 

"  Besides,"  Billy  went  on,  "  you've  always  said  you  couldn't 
live  here — it  was  necessary  to  live  at  your  studio." 

"  I  know ;  but  I  am  giving  up  the  studio." 

Billy  turned  whiter  than  usual. 


THE    MASTER  513 

"  What's  happened  ?"  he  cried  in  alarm. 

"  Nothing  in  particular." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  turn  me  out  of  my  work- 
room ?" 

"  No,  no,  Billy.     I  am  giving  up  painting  altogether." 

Billy's  eyes  dilated  in  horror,  as  on  the  night  when  his  mother 
had  dragged  him  out  of  bed  to  trudge  the  frozen  fields. 

"  Are  you  mad  ?"  he  gasped. 

Something  of  his  awe  sent  a  shiver  through  his  brother. 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  said  Matthew. 

He  fell  silent. 

Billy  regarded  him  furtively.  The  minutes  dragged  on. 
Matthew  looked  at  his  watch — getting  on  for  seven.  Eleanor 
Wyndwood  would  have  been  dressing  for  him — he  saw  her 
matchless  loveliness.  Another  few  minutes,  and  his  kisses 
would  have  been  on  her  lips — those  lips  that  had  lain  on  his  in 
what  was  already  an  enchanted,  hazy  dream  rather  than  a  wak- 
ing memory. 

"Perhaps  I  am  mad,"  he  muttered  again,  as  he'sat  waiting 
for  Rosina  instead.  And  then  he  caught  sight  of  the  little  fig- 
ure Davie  was  sucking,  and  began  to  laugh  boisterously. 

Billy  was  terrified. 

"  You  can  have  the  studio  back  if  you  like,"  he  said,  sooth- 
ingly ;  the  cripple's  tones  became  protective  in  their  turn.  "  I 
can  write  anywhere — and,  after  all,  what's  the  use  of  my  writ- 
ing ? — nobody  will  take  what  I  write." 

"  I  can  write  kisses,"  interposed  Davie,  looking  up  proudly. 

"  What  does  he  mean,  Billy  ?"  said  Matthew. 

"  Oh,  he  used  to  put  crosses  at  the  end  of  the  letter  when  Ro- 
sina wrote  to  poor  old  Coble  —  kisses  to  his  grandfather,  you 
know." 

"  He's  a  angel  now,"  said  Davie,  gravely. 

"  What's  that  you're  sucking  ?"  Billy  responded,  sternly. 
**  You  know  you  mustn't." 

He  took  it  away,  and  Davie  set  up  a  howl  till  pacified  by  a 
penny. 

"  It's  an  image  of  a  preacher,  Matt,"  Billy  explained.  "  I 
forget  his  name.  He  died  last  year — Rosina  used  to  go  and 


514  THE    MASTER 

hear  him.  She  said  he  gave  her  great  comfort.  These  images 
are  sold  in  thousands.  What  a  ludicrous  thing  popular  relig- 
ion is !" 

Matthew  laughed,  but  there  was  a  tear  for  Rosina  in  the 
laughter. 

"  By-the-way,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "  did  old  Coble  leave  her 
any  money  ?" 

"  Yes — but  a  few  thousand  dollars  was  all  there  was  when  his 
estate  was  wound  up.  He  couldn't  have  expected  to  crack  up, 
for  he  made  no  provision  whatever  for  Aunt  Clara." 

"  Then  Rosina  is  keeping  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"  How  does  she  reconcile  that  with  her  economy  ?"  he  thought, 
with  an  added  throb  of  tenderness.  The  kettle  sang  on ;  the 
cat  purred ;  he  had  a  flash  of  hope — he  might  grow  to  love  her 
yet.  But  he  thought  of  Eleanor  Wyndwood,  and  the  hope  died. 
They  would  have  been  on  their  way  now  to  their  restaurant — 
sitting  close  together,  driving  through  the  flashing  streets.  Oh, 
was  he  not  mad  to  be  here  ? 

"  What  are  you  doing  all  alone  ?"  he  thought.  "  My  love,  my 
first  love  and  my  last,  you  who  believed  in  me,  who  were  ready 
to  sacrifice  yourself  to  me  ?" 

"  Did  you  go  to  see  Ruth  Hailey  ?"  asked  Billy,  suddenly. 

Eleanor's  face  vanished.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  breast- 
pocket, and  drew  out  the  portrait  with  the  sweet,  shy  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  tremulously,  "and  she  gave  me  this." 

Billy  took  the  photograph  and  kissed  it. 

"  God  bless  you  !"  he  said. 

Davie  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"You're  not  in  love  with  her?"  Matthew  asked,  lightly,  with 
a  sudden  apprehension. 

"  I  ? — I  know  better  than  to  be  in  love  with  any  woman," 
said  Billy,  sadly,  as  he  returned  the  portrait.  "  Only  in  my 
stories  can  I  love  and  be  loved." 

"  It  was  she  who  sent  us  that  mysterious  money,"  said  Mat- 
thew, and  told  him  the  story.  Billy  listened  in  surprise  and 
emotion. 

"  God  bless  you,  Ruth  !"  he  said  again. 


THE    MASTER  515 

u  What  is  that  God  ?"  interrupted  Davie. 

The  brothers  looked  at  each  other,  embarrassed. 

"  Ask  mummy  ;  she'll  tell  you,"  said  Matthew,  at  last. 

"  Mummy  did  tell  me,  but  I  can't  'derstand."  He  sat  there 
wondering.  "  When  does  God  sleep  ?" 

The  sudden  blare  and  boom  of  a  Salvationist  procession 
saved  reply.  The  blatant  clangor  passed,  died.  They  waited 
for  Rosina. 

Presently  they  heard  the  returning  church  party  descending 
into  the  area,  so  as  not  to  soil  the  white  upper-steps.  He  had 
kissed  her  before  she  was  aware  of  his  presence,  as  she  stepped 
across  the  kitchen  threshold,  red-edged  prayer-book  in  hand. 
After  that  her  sullenness  was  only  half-hearted.  He  said  he 
had  come  to  supper.  By  the  time  they  had  sat  down  to  it  a 
reconciliation  had  been  patched  up.  Warned  by  Billy's  recep- 
tion of  his  determination,  he  did  not  even  break  it  to  her  yet. 
Thus  tamely  passed  off  the  great  renunciation  scene — the  crisis 
of  his  life — like  everything  else  in  his  life,  unlike  what  he  had 
imagined  beforehand.  Rosina  did  not  even  understand  what 
this  home-coming  meant  to  him.  He  pleaded  that  Davie,  who 
did  not  want  to  go  to  sleep,  should  be  allowed  to  stay  up  to 
supper,  but  this  request  was  not  granted. 

"  Mummy,  when  does  God  go  to  sleep  ?"  the  persistent 
Davie  remembered  to  ask  as  she  was  leading  him  from  the 
room. 

"  God  never  sleeps,"  replied  Rosina,  sternly,  and  haled  him  to 
bed. 

Matthew  pondered  the  immense  saying,  so  glibly  spoken,  as 
he  waited  for  her  to  return.  "  Aunt  Clara,"  pouch  -  eyed  and 
wan,  her  head  nodding  queerly  with  excitement  at  the  great 
man's  presence,  was  laying  the  supper  in  the  warm  kitchen, 
where  the  servant  would  not  resume  possession  till  ten ;  little 
Clara  was  at  her  task  of  Bible  reading.  Billy  drowsed  on  his 
chair,  exhausted.  The  fire  glowed  red ;  the  cat  was  still 
stretched  in  the  warmth.  Something  in  the  scene  thrilled  him 
with  a  sense  of  restful  kinship  with  it,  half  sweet,  half  sad ;  a 
sense  of  being  more  really  at  home  than  in  delicate  drawing- 
rooms  ;  the  old  homely  kitchen  far  away  on  the  borders  of  the 


516  THE    MASTER 

forest  sent  out  subtle  links,  binding  his  childhood  to  the  man- 
hood that  had  come  at  last. 

This  half-and-half -ness  was  typical  of  the  new  life  which  be- 
gan that  night,  and  which  on  the  morrow  was  sealed  and  conse- 
crated by  the  characteristically  self  -  deceptive  message  from 
Eleanor:  "You  are  right.  We  have  chosen  the  highest."  It 
was  a  life  full  of  petty  pricks  and  e very-day  worries.  But  if  it 
was  not  so  grandiosely  heroic  as  he  had  intended,  neither  was 
the  consequence  to  his  Art  as  he  had  foreseen. 

He  has  not  given  up  Art.  Neither  Rosina  nor  Billy  would 
permit  that  folly,  and  Eleanor's  brief  letter  had  a  postscript  of 
inspiring  protest.  He  had  meant  to  sacrifice  Art  and  Happi- 
ness, but  only  the  latter  sacrifice  was  accepted.  For  unhappiness 
drove  him  back  to  his  studio — where  the  "Angelus"  hung  now 
like  an  inspiration.  From  the  glooms  and  trials  of  the  daily 
routine  in  this  prosaic  home,  with  its  faithful  but  narrow-souled 
mistress,  who  knew  not  what  was  passing  in  her  husband's  mind, 
nor  at  what  cost  he  had  made  her  happy,  and  who  would  not 
even  agree  to  live  in  some  beautiful  country  spot  which  would 
have  softened  life  for  him  —  from  this  depressing  household, 
with  its  unsprightly  children,  its  cheerless  pensioner,  its  queru- 
lous cripple  resenting  the  very  hand  that  fed  him,  he  escaped  to 
the  little  whitewashed  studio  to  find  in  his  Art  oblivion  of  the 
burden  of  life. 

And  now,  at  last,  his  true  life  -  work  was  begun.  Removed 
from  the  sapping  cynicism  of  the  Club  conscience,  from  the 
drought  of  drawing-room  disbelief,  from  the  miasma  of  fashion- 
able conversation,  from  the  confusing  cackle  of  critics ;  saved 
from  the  intrigue  with  Mrs.  Wyndwood,  that  would  have. dis- 
tracted his  soul  and  imposed  an  extra  need  for  money-making ; 
withdrawn  from  the  feverish  rush  of  fashion  and  the  enervating 
consumption  of  superfluous  food  and  drink ;  exempted  from 
keeping  up  a  luxurious  position  purchased  by  scamped,  soulless 
pictures ;  able  to  work  without  the  whims  of  sitters  or  patrons, 
without  regard  to  prices — for  Rosina's  income,  augmented  by 
her  very  considerable  hoardings  and  by  his  balance,  supple- 
mented by  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  his  studio  effects  and 


THE    MASTER  51 7 

ancient  pictures,  the  whole  doubled  by  Rosina's  economic  ad- 
ministration, was  amply  sufficient  for  every  rational  need — Mat- 
thew Strang  began  at  last,  without  underthought  of  anything 
but  Art,  in  this  homely  environment  to  which  his  soul  was 
native,  to  express  his  own  inmost  individuality,  to  produce 
faithfully  and  finely  the  work  it  was  in  him  to  do. 

Solitary,  silent,  sorrowful,  strong ;  not  chattering  about  his 
ideas  and  his  aims,  indifferent  to  fame  or  the  voice  of  posterity, 
striving  for  self-approbation  and  rarely  obtaining  it,  touching 
and  retouching,  breaking  the  rules  of  the  schools  in  obedience 
to  his  own  genius,  he  toiled  on  in  his  humble  studio,  seeking 
the  highest,  with  no  man  and  no  woman  to  inspire,  encourage, 
or  praise.  He  had  been  saved  from  Love  and  Happiness,  and 
sent  back  into  sympathy  with  all  that  works  and  suffers.  And 
thus  the  note  that  had  trembled  faintly  and  then  died  out  in  his 
work  was  struck  strong  and  sure  at  last — the  note  of  soul.  To 
his  accurate  science  and  his  genius  for  the  decorative,  which  are 
two  of  the  factors  of  great  Art,  was  now  added  the  spiritual 
poetry  which  is  the  last  and  rarest.  For  he  was  master  of  his 
soul  at  last. 

He  had  absorbed  life  sufficiently  —  he  had  toiled  and  hun- 
gered ;  he  had  feasted  and  made  merry  ;  he  had  sorrowed  and 
endured ;  he  had  sinned  and  suffered  ;  he  had  known  the  lust 
of  life  and  the  pride  of  the  eye  ;  he  had  known  Love — the  love 
of  the  soul  and  the  love  of  the  senses ;  he  had  known  the  heart- 
ache of  baffled  ambition  and  the  dust  and  ashes  of  achievement. 
What  he  had  wanted  he  had  not  got ;  by  the  time  he  had  got  it 
he  had  not  wanted  it ;  whatever  he  had  set  out  to  do  he  had  not 
done,  and  whatever  he  had  done  he  had  not  foreseen.  And  out 
of  all  this  travail  of  the  soul  was  born  his  Art — strong,  austere, 
simple. 

In  the  five  or  six  years  since  he  died  to  the  world  he  has 
finished  as  many  big  pictures,  and  has  made  studies  for  others, 
besides  a  host  of  minor  things.  He  has  not  exhibited  any  of 
the  larger  pictures  in  the  Academy ;  three  have  been  presented 
quietly  to  provincial  and  suburban  galleries  where  the  People 
comes.  Only  one  with  some  of  the  smaller  things  has  been  sold 
for  money,  and  this  but  to  appease  Rosina;  it  was  one  more 


518  THE    MASTER 

sacrifice  of  his  individuality  to  hers.  It  is  true  there  are  ex- 
penses for  models  and  materials,  and  he  has  now  two  more  chil- 
dren, but  it  jars  upon  him  to  ask  money  for  work  that  expresses 
and  conceals  the  tragic  secrets  of  his  inmost  being.  Nor  does  he 
care  to  have  his  pictures  shut  away  amid  the  other  furniture  of 
luxurious  mansions.  Still,  he  has  learned  enough  to  know  that 
life  cannot  be  lived  ideally.  And,  moreover,  the  event  has  taught 
him  again  the  contrariety  of  life  ;  for  his  eccentricity,  leaking  out 
slowly,  has  enhanced  the  fame  to  which  he  is  indifferent,  and, 
aided  by  a  legend  of  mysterious  saturnine  seclusion,  has  raised 
his  market  value  to  such  a  point  that  he  need  only  sell  an 
occasional  picture.  One  dealer  in  particular  is  anxious  to  give 
him  his  own  price  for  a  picture.  Matthew  Strang  will  probably 
part  with  one  to  him  some  day,  but  he  does  not  know  that  the 
dealer  is  acting  for  Lady  Thornton,  the  wealthy  and  celebrated 
society  leader  and  convert,  though  he  knows  and  is  glad  that 
Eleanor  Wyndwood  found  both  happiness  and  spiritual  peace 
when,  a  few  months  after  her  friend  Olive  Regan's  marriage  to 
Herbert  Strang,  that  ever  -  charming  and  impressionable  lady 
was  led  to  the  altar  by  the  handsome  and  brilliant  Sir  Gilbert 
Thornton,  and  went  over  with  him  to  Roman  Catholicism.  With 
the  same  earnestness  with  which  she  had  passed  from  her  native 
orthodoxy  to  the  Socialism  of  Gerard  Erode,  and  thence  to  the 
spirituality  of  Dolkovitch,  she  had  slid  by  a  natural  transition 
from  the  sensuous  art  atmosphere  of  Matthew  Strang's  world  into 
the  sensuous  spirituality  of  Catholicism  as  soon  as  his  influence 
had  been  replaced  by  the  ascendency  of  another  male  mind.  He 
was  not  asked  to  the  wedding,  and  the  invitation  to  Olive's, 
reaching  him  in  the  days  when  the  first  darkness  of  isolation 
was  upon  him,  he  had  left  unanswered. 

And  just  as  he  has  given  his  Art  freely  to  the  world,  so,  under 
the  inspiration  of  Tarmigan's  memory,  he  gives  his  services  freely 
at  Grainger's  and  other  humble  art-schools  as  encourager  of  every 
talent  that  aspires  under  discouragement ;  teaching  it  to  be  itself 
and  nothing  else,  for  the  artist  gives  to  the  world  and  is  not  asked 
for,  creating  the  taste  he  satisfies,  and  Art  is  not  Truth  nor 
Beauty,  but  a  revelation  of  beautiful  truth  through  the  individual 
vision.  It  is  the  artist's  reaction  to  the  stimulus  of  his  universe, 


THE    MASTER  519 

whether  his  universe  be  our  common  world  seen  for  itself  or 
through  antecedent  art,  or  a  private  world  of  inward  vision  :  for 
while  the  philosophers  are  quarrelling  about  abstract  truth,  the 
artist  answers  Pilate's  question  through  his  own  personality.  The 
beauty  which  Matthew  Strang's  art  reveals,  though  he  experi- 
ments in  many  styles,  with  unequal  results,  is  mainly  tragic. 
For  others  the  gay,  the  flippant,  the  bright — let  those  from  whose 
temperament  these  things  flow  interpret  the  joyousness  and 
buoyancy  and  airy  grace  of  existence.  For  others  the  empty 
experimentation  in  line  and  color.  It  is  all  Art — in  the  house 
of  Art  are  many  mansions.  He  has  come  to  the  last  of  the  three 
stages  of  so  many  artists,  who  pass  from  the  fever  to  do  every- 
thing, through  a  period  of  intolerance  for  all  they  cannot  do,  into 
a  genial  acceptance  of  the  good  in  all  schools.  But,  unassuming 
as  he  has  always  been,  he  is  yet  sometimes  shaken  by  righteous 
indignation  when  he  sees  tawdry  art — art  that  is  the  response  to 
the  stimulus  of  no  universe  but  the  artificial  studio-universe  of 
models  and  posings  and  stage-properties — enthroned  and  feted 
at  the  banquet  of  life  ;  and  sometimes  an  unguarded  word  flashes 
out  before  his  pupils,  but  he  always  repents  of  his  railings,  feel- 
ing it  is  his  to  work,  not  to  judge ;  to  do  the  one  simple  thing 
that  his  hand  findeth  to  do. 

One  of  his  pictures  is  of  a  woman  looking  out  to  sea  with 
hopeless  eyes ;  there  is  a  mocking  glory  of  sunset  in  the  sky. 
This  is  called  "  The  Pain  of  the  World."  The  title  was  due  to 
Olive's  exclamation  that  night  in  Devonshire.  The  figure  is  his 
mother's,  come  back  to  him  in  his  own  solitude — the  image  of 
her  standing  thus  in  the  asylum  at  Halifax  could  not  be  effaced 
from  his  soul ;  it  had  to  find  expression  in  his  Art. 

As  he  worked  at  it,  with  the  brutal  aloofness  of  the  artist, 
studying  lights  and  shadows,  values  arid  effects,  gradations  and 
tones,  he  wondered  whether  the  artist  were  a  cold-blooded  mon- 
ster, or  a  divinely  appointed  alchemist  sent  to  transmute  the 
dross  of  the  world's  pain  to  the  gold  of  Art  for  the  world's  pleas' 
ure  ;  a  magician  to  cover  up  the  rawness  of  life,  as  kindly  Nature 
covers  up  the  naked  earth  with  grass,  or  throws  the  purple  light 
of  dream  over  all  that  is  dead — over  the  centuries  that  are  past 
or  our  youth  that  is  gone ;  a  Redeemer,  whose  beautiful  percep< 


520  THE    MASTER 

tion  of  pathos  and  tragedy  robs  the  grave  of  its  victory,  and 
plucks  Death  of  its  sting,  so  that  no  man  suffereth  or  travaileth 
without  contributing  to  the  raw  stuff  of  life  of  which  Art  is 
woven  by  the  souls  dowered  with  the  pangs  and  privileges  of 
Over-Consciousness.  Each  man,  it  sometimes  seemed  to  him, 
dimly,  had  to  pay  so  much  in  sorrow  and  pain  ;  and  in  return 
for  that  he  drew  from  the  common  human  fund  the  comprehen- 
sion of  life  and  the  consolation  of  Art,  new  sympathies  and  new 
delights,  music  and  books  and  pictures,  that  only  lived  through 
the  rich  variety  of  human  destinies ;  mystic  atmospheres  and 
minor  scales,  meaningless  to  souls  that  had  not  suffered  or  in- 
herited the  capacity  to  suffer.  Some — generally  the  stupid — 
paid  little  in  pain  and  sorrow ;  and  some — as  in  his  own  case 
— much.  But  so  long  as  the  account  showed  a  balance  to  the 
general  good,  it  was  not  for  the  soul  that  was  sacrificed  to 
complain.  It  was,  perhaps,  even  a  privilege  to  subserve  the 
common  good.  Life  was  so  arranged  that  virtue  could  not  be 
sure  of  personal  reward,  and  this  uncertainty  was  just  what  made 
virtue  possible.  Under  no  other  scheme  of  things  could  the 
soul  enjoy  the  privilege  of  virtue.  To  have  suffered,  as  he  him- 
self had  done,  by  the  institution  of  marriage,  both  as  child  and 
husband  ;  to  have  been  a  victim  to  the  general  laws  which  safe- 
guard human  society ;  to  have  been  cut  in  two  by  the  flaming 
swords  of  the  cherubim,  which  turn  every  way  to  keep  the  way 
of  the  Tree  of  Life — all  this  did  not,  he  thought,  give  him  the 
right  to  blaspheme  existence.  And  the  artist  at  least  extracted 
a  soul  of  good  from  all  things  evil. 

Some  such  reflections  —  not  clear,  but  all  confused  and 
blurred,  for  he  was  no  syllogism-building  philosopher,  but  an 
artist  whose  profoundest  thought  sprang  always  from  the  con- 
crete image  before  him — came  to  him  again  when  he  was  work- 
ing at  his  famous  picture  "  The  Persecutors,"  inspired  by  an 
episode  in  Billy's  life,  though  Billy  does  not  know.  It  is 
simply  children  tormenting  an  old  man.  The  old  man  is  one 
of  the  world's  wrecks  ;  the  children  know  not  what  they  do. 
But  the  pathos  of  the  picture  is  overwhelming ;  it  purifies 
by  pity  and  terror.  This  is  the  profit  to  the  world  of  Billy's 
life, 


THE    MASTER  521 

Matthew  Strang  knows,  with  the  same  secret  assurance  that 
sent  him  out  to  fight,  and  strengthened  him  in  the  long  strug- 
gle, that  this  picture  will  live,  that  the  gods  have  answered  his 
boyish  prayer  for  immortality.  But  at  moments  when  Billy  is 
moping  or  in  pain,  or  when  the  artist  foresees  the  gabble  of 
magazines  and  drawing-rooms  about  his  work,  the  chatter  of 
fashionable  parrots,  and  the  analysis  of  his  "second  manner" 
by  glib,  comfortable  critics,  he  wonders  whether  the  picture  or 
the  immortality  is  worth  the  price. 

But,  stronger  than  those  driven  by  their  Over-Consciousness 
to  express  in  artistic  shapes  the  futility  of  life,  he  does  not 
dwell  eternally  on  the  tears  of  things ;  and  his  picture  simply 
entitled  "  A  Woman  "  is  perhaps  his  masterpiece.  For  when 
he  painted  it  that  sunrise  in  Paris  was  still  vivid  to  him,  and 
the  light  in  Ruth  Hailey's  eyes,  and  that  fire  of  love  in  Eleanor 
Wyndwood's  ;  these  things  were  in  the  eternal  order,  too,  as 
truly  as  the  ugliness  and  the  sordid  realities.  The  simplest 
human  life  was  packed  with  marvels  of  sensation  and  emotion, 
haloed  with  dreams  and  divine  illusions.  To  have  been  a  child, 
to  have  sung  and  danced,  to  have  eaten  and  played,  to  have  seen 
woods  and  waters,  to  have  grown  to  youth  and  to  manhood,  to 
have  dreamed  and  .aspired,  to  have  labored  and  hoped — all  this 
happiness  had  been  his  while  he  was  looking  for  happiness,  just 
as  Art  had  been  his  in  Nova  Scotia,  while  he  had  been  strug- 
gling to  get  to  it  in  England. 

And  so  to-day  he  yearns  to  paint  the  poetry  of  the  Real — not 
with  the  false  romantic  glamour  which  had  witched  his  youth, 
though  even  his  youth  had  had  a  hankering  after  the  Real,  just 
as  his  maturity  retains  a  love  for  the  mystic.  That  gilded  un- 
reality to  which  his  Art  would  have  gravitated,  had  he  found 
happiness  with  the  sentimental  Eleanor  in  her  atmosphere  of 
fashion,  will  be  replaced  by  the  beauty  that  even  when  mystic 
is  based  on  Truth.  He  needed  no  woman's  inspiration,  nor  the 
stimulus  of  cultured  cliques.  Alone  he  faces  the  realities  of  life 
and  death  without  intervening  veils  of  charming  illusion,  no  lon- 
ger craving  to  filter  the  honest  sunlight  through  stained  cathe- 
dral windows  or  to  tarnish  the  simplicity  of  the  grave  with  mon- 
umental angels.  Aspiring  now  to  paint  London,  he  wanders 


522  THE    MASTER 

through  the  gray  streets,  as  in  his  days  of  hunger,  but  now  the 
grotesque  figures  no  longer  seem  outside  the  realm  of  serious 
Art,  or  mere  picturesque  arrangements  of  line  and  color.  To  his 
purged  vision,  that  still  lacks  humor,  they  touch  the  mysteries 
and  the  infinities,  passing  and  disappearing  like  ghosts  on  a 
planet  of  dream :  solitude  has  brought  him  a  sense  of  the  uni- 
versal life  from  which  they  flow,  and  he  fancies  the  function  of 
Art  should  be  to  show  the  whole  in  every  part,  the  universal 
through  the  particular.  And  so  he  longs  to  paint  the  beauty 
that  lies  unseen  of  grosser  eyes,  the  poetry  of  mean  streets  and 
every-day  figures,  to  enrich  and  hallow  life  by  revealing  some 
sweep  of  a  great  principle  that  purifies  and  atones. 

In  "  The  Old  Maid  "  he  has  painted  the  portrait  of  "  Aunt 
Clara  "  with  Davie  on  her  knee,  revealing  the  wistful,  imprisoned, 
maternal  instinct  he  detected  one  day  in  her  sunken  eyes  as  she 
fondled  his  little  Davie.  What  makes  this  presentation  of  ugli- 
ness Art  is  not  merely  the  breathing  brush-work,  but  the  beauty 
of  his  own  pity  which  the  artist  has  added  to  the  Nature  he 
copied.  With  the  falsely  aristocratic  in  Art  or  life  he  has  lost 
sympathy :  to  him  to  be  honest  and  faithful  is  to  belong  to  the 
only  aristocracy  in  the  world — and  the  smallest.  Sometimes  he 
dreams  of  some  great  Common  Art — for  all  men,  like  the  sky 
and  the  air,  which  should  somehow  soften  life  for  all.  And 
dreaming  thus  he  somewhat  frets  against  the  many  limitations 
of  his  own  Art — as  once  in  his  callow  boyhood  when  he  set  out 
to  write  that  dime  novel — and  against  its  lapsed  influence  in 
modern  life,  wishing  rather  he  had  been  a  great  poet  or  a  great 
musician.  Only  music  and  poetry,  he  feared  while  toiling  at  the 
"  Old  Maid,"  could  express  and  inspire  modern  life  ;  the  impulse 
that  had  raised  the  cathedral  had  been  transformed  into  the  im- 
pulse that  built  the  grand  hotel,  fitted  throughout  with  electrical 
conveniences ;  in  the  visible  arts  landscape  and  portraiture  alone 
seemed  to  find  response  from  the  modern  mind,  the  one  by  its 
revelation  of  the  beauty  of  the  world,  the  other  by  its  increas- 
ing subtlety  of  psychological  insight.  Painting  had  begun  with 
religion,  religion  had  led  to  technique,  then  religion  had  drifted 
away  from  painting,  and  then  technique  had  become  a  religion. 
But  technique  ought  not  to  be  thought  of  separately  except  by 


THE     MASTER  523 

the  student ;  to  the  artist  the  spiritual  and  the  material  came  as 
one  conception,  as  metre  comes  with  the  poet's  thought.  The 
spirit  must  be  brought  back  to  painting — this  modern  accuracy 
of  tones  and  forms  was  but  the  channel  for  it.  But  it  could  no 
longer  be  conveyed  through  the  simple  images  of  a  popular 
creed  to  which  all  men  vibrated :  to-day  there  was  no  such  com- 
mon chord  for  the  artist  to  touch.  Even  this  picture  of  "  The 
Old  Maid  "  might  be  unintelligible  without  its  title,  and  risked 
denunciation  as  literary.  And  the  greatest  picture  could  be  seen 
by  but  few. 

But  repining  is  useless;  there  is  only  one  thing  he  can  dov 
and  he  must  do  it — a  small  thing  in  the  span  of  the  cosmos  and 
the  sweep  of  the  ages,  but  to  be  done  ere  he  goes  down  to  the 
kindred  dust.  But  before  death  comes  he  has  doubtless  other 
things  to  suffer — all  these  spiritual  agonies  have  seared  the 
body  in  which  early  privations  and  sickness  had  already  left 
the  seeds  of  premature  infirmity.  His  children  are  growing  up, 
too,  bringing  new  fears  and  problems. 

And  yet  his  life  is  not  all  unhappy — work  is  his  anodyne,  and 
there  is  an  inner  peace  in  the  daily  pain,  because  it  is  the  pain 
that  his  soul  has  chosen,  in  willing  slavery  to  its  own  yoke. 

But  life  is  too  long  for  ideals  ;  the  unending  procession  of  the 
days  depresses  the  finest  enthusiasm.  Sometimes  when  the  do- 
mestic horizon  is  dark,  or  when  his  body  is  racked  with  pain,  he 
rebels  against  the  role  thrust  upon  him  in  the  world's  workshop, 
and  against  the  fate  that  mocked  at  his  free-will,  and  made  of 
him  a  voluntary  instrument  for  the  happiness  of  Rosina  and 
Herbert,  turning  his  every  action  to  undreamed-of  issues  ;  and 
then  he  longs  for  the  life  that  he  had  found  so  hollow,  the  life 
of  gay  talk,  and  rustling  dresses,  and  wine,  and  woman,  and  song. 
And  in  such  moments  as  these — when  the  natural  human  in- 
stinct for  happiness,  yearning  sunward,  breaks  through  all  the 
strata  of  laborious  philosophy  and  experience — he  remembers 
that  men  call  him  "  The  Master,"  and  then  he  seems  to  hear  the 
sardonic  laughter  of  Mad  Peggy,  as  he  asks  himself  what  Master 
he  has  followed  in  his  sacrifice,  or  what  Master,  working  imper- 
turbably,  moulds  human  life  at  his  ironic,  inscrutable  will. 


OVERDUE. 

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